


Collected Drabbles

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:38:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 20,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: A place for me to store various short drabbles and pairings I've written for tumblr and elsewhere. Mostly Jon Snow/Sansa Stark but other pairings (some platonic) as well. Mix of modern and non-modern AUs. A few headcanons too. I'll add to this periodically. I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi!





	1. Dancing in the kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wants to surprise Sansa on their wedding day.
> 
> Inspired by the song Power of Two by the Indigo Grils. 
> 
> Based on a tumblr prompt: give me the first sentence of a fic and I'll write the next 5.

She couldn’t believe her eyes.

Jon almost tripped as he rounded the corner, holding the broomstick in his arms and spinning across the checkered linoleum tile.

They’d finally given up on doing a routine for their first wedding song weeks ago, to spare themselves Jon’s muttered apologies and Sansa’s squashed toes.

But as Jon dipped the broom in front of the microwave, Sansa couldn’t come to any other conclusion - he had to be practicing, right here in their kitchen. 

“Jon, I thought we left this behind,” Sansa said, pulling her white fuzzy robe tighter, torn between affection for her fiancé and her need to reach for the coffee pot to get her morning caffeine fix. 

“I saw your face fall when we stopped, Sansa, I was going to get better in secret and ask to try again, and besides, I really want to dance to Power of Two with you,” Jon stammered, blushing, until Sansa stopped him with a kiss, giving thanks that her future husband was dear, and familiar, and still able to surprise her.


	2. What use is regret?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon meet the next morning after a heated night-time encounter.
> 
>  
> 
> Based on a "write the first sentence and I'll write the next five" tumblr prompt. I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi!

Jon/Sansa - “I’m sorry.” Sansa whispered kneeling  next to Jon under the heart tree. She grabbed his hand and saw her own turmoil reflected in his eyes. “I should not have–I never meant for that to happen.”

***

Jon had been urgent as he kissed her against the wall, and Sansa had tasted ale on his tongue before he dipped down to the hollow of her throat, plunging his hands into her hair, drawing small moans from her as she held his head to her chest.  
  
They’d both had too much to drink that night, as the crowd celebrated taking back Winterfell, and she’d refilled his glass every chance she got - she wasn’t proud of herself, but something pushed her onward, wanted Jon to give in to that hungry, worshipful look in his eyes that he could never quite hide.  
  
When they stumbled to his chambers Jon had balked, shaking his head as if to clear it, to stop this madness, but Sansa threaded her fingers through the laces of his shirt to pull him towards the bed, and she’d almost cried with relief when his hot mouth found hers again.  
  
He’d slowed his pace when they were wrapped together in the furs, naked and panting, and she came apart at his touch and the sound of his hushed voice, hearing  _sweet girl_ and _love_ and _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_.  
  
Now in the soft light of day under the weirwood, she realized the only part of the night she truly regretted was when she’d fled his room, and her heart sang when Jon kissed her after the end of her confession  -  "I shouldn’t have left, Jon.“


	3. Sansa and Arya's soulmates - headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a "soulmates headcanon au" requested for Jon x Sansa, that ended up including Arya x Gendry too.

It’s an old, outdated tradition, that girls see the surname of their soulmate on their arm once they’ve flowered. There are stories that men used to see names too. For men it was different, a woman’s first name appeared, not her last name, inked onto a man's arm when he reached puberty. But now only girls bear the mark. The marks are respected secrets, and a girl can close her eyes and choose to let another see the golden script on her arm.

Sansa loves the custom, though, and thinks it will be one of the best parts of growing up. It’s a small consolation to see “Targaryen” appear on her arm when she bleeds for the first time. At least it’s not Joffrey’s last name, but she already knew the gods would be cruel to make that monster her soulmate. And besides, what Targaryens are left?

The tradition causes a world of trouble for bastards, because only a man's true surname will bloom on someone else’s arm. Somehow, the tale goes, the gods know your real parentage. This also means “Stone” and “Waters” and “Snow” are never words a girl sees on her skin. 

Sansa falls in love with Jon when she still knows him as a half-brother. She’s surprised at how little guilt or shame she feels. She’s numb to the judgment of others, and coaxes him into her bed regardless. She feels a throb on her arm the first time they are together, and recalls later that was in the soulmates stories too. But the night she spent with Jon was so beautiful in other ways that the detail falls to the back of her mind quickly. 

When Jon’s parentage is revealed, Jon’s dumbfounded, then obstinate. He refuses to believe it’s true, because he’s wanted to be a Stark for so long. The evidence is overwhelming, though. Others encourage him to embrace it, and deal with the implications, but he won’t. After impatiently listening to fifteen minutes of argument, Sansa takes Jon into her chambers and shows him her mark, willing it to appear for Jon’s eyes. This has always been a woman’s privilege, done in private, and many married men know they will never see their wife’s mark. Marriages are rarely made for love, most often for political considerations, and it’s the stuff of songs when love and politics coincide. Jon traces the name in wonder, and the next morning, in a remarkably good mood, acknowledges his heritage.

Sansa and Jon are thrilled to see Arya make her way back to Winterfell, though there’s a distance and anger in Arya still. She’s not inclined to talk about it. A few days later a young man named Gendry Waters shows up looking for work, and Jon gratefully accepts. Their ranks have been decimated, and they could use a good smith. Sansa catches Gendry glancing at Arya longingly under his dark eylashes, and doesn’t miss the pointed way Arya avoids him. Obviously they know each other. If Arya’s in love, Sansa thinks, it would likely manifest this way. She’s not sure how to talk to Arya about it, so she starts with her own story, and shows Arya her mark. Arya sighs and tells Sansa she’s happy for her, really, because Sansa deserves an ending like a song, but what is she supposed to do with “Baratheon” on her arm?

The mystery of Gendry’s birth is sorted out, and Arya, with a roll of her eyes, relents to Sansa and Jon’s kind advice to talk to Gendry. She bares her arm and shows Gendry her mark, right there out in the open in front of the forge, glaring at him, daring him to deny it. Gendry drops to his knees instantly, and asks Arya to marry him. When Arya says yes, so quietly Sansa and Jon have to strain to hear it, he picks her up with a shout and spins her around. Arya’s covered with dust when Gendry sets her down gently. She’s beaming, the first real smile Jon and Sansa have seen since she returned to Winterfell, and Sansa thinks some traditions might still be worth keeping. 


	4. Reading in bed

Jon gets stuck reading romance novels to Sansa while she’s sick. Loosely based on my modern AU where Sansa and Margaery run a floral shop and Jon works for them part-time.  
  
  
“Um…..”

“Jon, I’m sick, you promised.”

Sansa almost felt guilty. Almost. But it was too delicious to watch Jon squirm as he read to her. And she’d insisted on a romance novel.  
When she texted Margaery to tell her she couldn’t come in to work at Highgarden Florists - she wasn’t contagious, just needed some more time to get over bronchitis - Margaery had clucked and cooed and told her to rest.

Fifteen minutes later Jon had showed up at her door.

“Marg said you were sick and needed company and I brought some soup and, uh, hello.”

He was clutching a plastic container to his chest. Sansa tried to thank him, but had a coughing fit. Jon got her some water and heated up the soup, and now he was sitting on her vanity chair.

He flipped the page and blushed all the way up to his ears. “OK new rule, I’m not reading any chapter with the words “throbbing member.”

“So skip ahead.” Sansa took a sip of water and listened to the pages turn.

Jon did odd jobs for the shop. He and Sansa bonded on the delivery route about Margaery’s crazy ideas. Most of them worked. Margaery reintroduced some centuries-old tradition of using plain carnations to say yes, and striped carnations to say no. The store had cleaned up the week before prom.

Watching Jon fidget, Sansa blew her nose in order to hide her smile. This was one of Margaery’s best schemes yet.  
Jon paused after a chapter where the lead character missed his lover’s plane. He’d raced to the airport to confess his feelings and beg her not to marry Steve, the traveling reporter.

“I don’t know, Sansa, I might want to fly off and marry Steve too. I mean, this other guy, if they did end up together, you’re going to have to say ‘this is my husband, Chadwick.’ What kind of a name is Chadwick?”

“Easy. You call him Chad.” Sansa scraped the bottom of her bowl.

“Do you want more?” Sansa thought Jon looked hopeful. Heating up soup would mean a good 10 minutes of fussing in the kitchen. Away from the novel.

“Yes, please, Jon, I want to know what happens next.” Jon wasn’t getting off that easily, not on her watch.

Jon sighed and settled back in. “So next, looks like Chadwick ponders his life choices while driving down-”

“Jon, don’t tell me first! Keep reading!”

Sansa fell into a dreamy, peaceful state listening to Jon’s voice and the details of Chadwick’s drive to Martha’s Vineyard.

“You know, maybe he does care about her. At least he finally understands why she left.”

Sansa opened one eye. Was Jon starting to get invested? He hadn’t made a joke in a while. “Why do you think so?”

“Well, listen to this.” Jon licked his thumb to turn the page and Sansa got a little distracted herself.

She fell into the story again as soon as Jon started reading. "Cassandra was right, he couldn’t open up, or tell her how he felt. And if he couldn’t do that, how could he care for her? How could he care for himself? Chadwick resolved to call her and talk to her. About how he’d do anything for her, carry her through icy water, protect her body with his own, make sure she was safe and secure and could watch the sun rise each morning from her own window.“

Jon seemed to be avoiding her gaze. They were both quiet, and Sansa heard the heater kick on. “So you like that passage, Jon?”

Jon shrugged. “It…reminds me of someone I know. And Cassandra’s going to be dragged around the globe with Steve, when she told Chadwick she’s been uprooted her whole life, and she’s always dreamed of having her own home to come back to every day.”

“Jon Snow, you’re a romantic.” To her surprise, Jon smiled. “Not many people know that about me.”

“So does this mean you’ll read me romance novels even when I’m not sick?” Sansa meant it as a tease, but Jon looked at her earnestly.

“I would, Sansa.” Now it was her turn to blush.


	5. To see your face again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short drabble related to Jon and Sansa's reunion, and the vision Jon had the first time he saw Sansa.

Jon’s vision fades out from time to time, since Melisandre brought him back to the living. He’ll be standing, arms crossed, listening to Davos speak in rough, earnest tones to an implacable Brienne, when a white mist overtakes him, making the room around him seem like an apparition.

Images flash in front of his eyes. Some are painful, and from the past - Bran, halfway up a mossy wall, looking down at him with a grin, or Ygritte skinning a rabbit by the fire. Some are from outside of time itself, showing him creatures he can’t explain. He sees ice dragons, frost falling from their wings like powder, or the Children of the Forest, silent, ringed around a man tied to a stake on an island.

The first and most powerful vision, though, struck him the first time he laid eyes on Sansa. She had traveled hard, and strands of her red hair had come loose from her braid. The white mist that creeps in leaves only her face visible, and suddenly she’s rested and regal before him, as tall and fine as a queen, _his_ queen. Sansa wears a carved gold crown of wolves and dragons, and she’s come back to him somehow. He knows instantly, in his gut, how she feels in his arms, how she smiled at him when they first wed, soft and tentative, how she came to love him as the years went by. _Wife_ , a voice whispers. He quells it as he pushes back from the railing, though the word echoes in his ears. Sansa’s come to him in a time of trouble, and she needs her brother to be her refuge. But he can’t shake the lingering sense of the vision entirely, and when she jumps into his arms, he barely keeps the confession from escaping his lips: _I missed you, my love._


	6. Lemoncake cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short tumblr drabble about Jon buying a few too many treats for Sansa. :)
> 
> Based on the "give me the first sentence of a story, and I will write the next five sentences"
> 
> Thanks for the prompt riahchan!

"When I said a dozen I meant cookies, not boxes!"

***

"Didn't your first text say 'lemoncake cookies' and-" Jon glanced at his phone -  "your second text said 'a dozen', and okay, maybe I should have realized, but honestly, Sansa, are you really upset there are more LemonCake cookies in the house?"

As Sansa looked at Jon, standing red-cheeked in the doorway, snow still melting in his hair from his walk to the bakery, she knew her boyfriend was a man who'd go overboard, without a second thought, just to make her happy.

"It's fine, Jon, we'll freeze the rest of them, I'll find a recipie that works, and we can eat them in the winter, they'll remind us of June and sunshine and picnics in the backyard on the swing."

Sansa reached for him, savoring how warm and eager he was, the soft noises he made as he ran his hands through her hair, how he leaned into her and kissed her like he never wanted to stop. 

She smiled to herself, realizing from the sweet citrus taste of his mouth that Jon had already snuck one of the cookies before he came indoors.


	7. You cannot know my heart (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s had visions ever since he came back from the dead. The strongest of them revolve around Sansa, and how their life should be together. He saw Sansa as his queen when she first came to Castle Black, and the impression only grows stronger when he touches her. Inspired by the Forehead Kiss :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 5: Hearts (Jon x Sansa: 15 Days of Valentines) on tumblr. I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi! :)

Jon’s learned to adapt, to hide the moments when the people before him fade and other scenes play out before his eyes. A white mist takes his vision from him at unpredictable times. It started after Melisandre brought him back. He sees flashing images of loved ones long gone, or of battles he suspects he still has to fight. Most of his men take for granted that sometimes he’ll need an extra beat to respond to a question. Tormund’s the one who looks askance at him when it happens, and he wonders if the wildlings might be able to help him understand what’s become of him.They take warging and white walkers in stride, after all. But he can’t bring himself to ask. Coming back from the dead’s made him enough of an outsider already.

Sansa’s his biggest problem. He still feels traces of the pull he experienced when Sansa appeared before him as his wife and his queen in the courtyard of Castle Black. Since then, he’s pushed the thoughts aside. Jon focuses on Sansa’s comfort, and on getting her to trust him. When he sends Melisandre away, it’s because of the terrible act she confessed to, of course - burning an innocent girl alive. An irrational part of his mind also hopes, though, that distance from the magic that snatched him away from death might also bring him relief from his feelings for Sansa. That hope gives him the courage to touch Sansa’s face, to kiss her forehead, to try to seal them together as brother and sister.

Jon soon learns that kissing Sansa is a terrible mistake. When his lips brush her forehead, white mist creeps in front of his eyes, and Sansa’s before him in her nightshift. He itches with the memory of the feel of her soft skin under his hands, recalls the small, content sigh she makes when she bolts their chamber door at night before coming to join him in bed. He remembers the flush in her cheeks when she sits next to him, how happy they both are to finally be alone together. He sees it with such perfect clarity that he sways towards her, just like he does every night, to kiss his wife, to show her all the ways he cares about her that he can’t put into words.  


He catches himself before he presses his mouth to hers, terrified at how close he came to revealing what’s in his heart. He gives her an awkward pat on the cheek and turns away from her, sick with the knowledge that he’ll have to do what he can to keep his distance from Sansa still.


	8. Reunion kiss (jon x sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short fluffy "five plus one" sentence prompt fill on tumblr about Jon surprising Sansa for Valentine's Day that got a little longer than planned. :)

This isn’t how this was supposed to happen.

Not that Jon was _complaining_ about Sansa wrapping her arms around him and kissing him breathless, mind you, but she was crushing the roses he’d bought, and he should probably put the tin of her favorite toffee down.

Then Sansa tugged at his hair, and he forgot everything but the taste of her mouth and the glorious sounds she made. He let the flowers drop to the floor and heard the tin roll off to the kitchen, losing himself in how good it felt to touch her again after three long months.

When they broke apart Sansa was flushed, and grinning, and Jon was pretty sure he had the same goofy smile on his face.

”So, um, wow, hi, happy early Valentine’s Day, your presents are now a treasure hunt in the apartment, and I hope the thorns didn’t scratch your skin-”

Sansa put a finger to his lips to stop his babbling, and fisted her hand in his shirt. She leaned in close to his ear and murmured, “Why don’t you check, just in case?”

This wasn’t the reunion kiss he’d planned on, Jon thought as they stumbled to the bedroom, but sometimes the best-laid plans gave way to something better.


	9. Rhaegal's arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mini fic where Sansa is unhappy Jon is being summoned to King's Landing when she is pregnant. Jon reassures her. Also there's a dragon. 
> 
> Based on a tumblr prompt of "give me the first sentence of a fic and i'll write the next 5."

"Jon, your dragon is at the window."

Sansa was looking calmly into her mirror, combing her auburn hair, though they both knew the sight of Rhaegal's golden eye filling the window of her chamber meant Daenerys was summoning Jon to King's Landing.  

"The Queen should be pleased, I'd imagine, that the maester says I'm carrying a boy, an heir to the throne who can continue the Targaryen line," Sansa said with a quick, sad smile that would have escaped Jon's notice before they married.

Jon had never been good with words, but he knew he'd need to step up now as he stood behind her, placing his hands on Sansa's swelling stomach, shielding her from Rhaegal, from Daenerys, from King's Landing itself. 

"You're carrying our child, sweet girl, I love you both so much, he's ours first, Sansa, our cub, and you and I will raise the babe here in Winterfell."

Sansa beamed at him, and he pulled her tight, inhaling her scent of lemon and lavender, allowing himself to hold his wife for another minute, and another, before he mounted the dragon's back and rode south.


	10. It's the little things that let me know I love you (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Sansa and Margaery work at Tyrell & Tyrell, a large law firm in Chicago. Jon and Sansa got cozy when working on a case, and now they’ve been dating for several months. Sansa's been trying to work up the courage to tell Jon she loves him. She didn't expect a toothbrush to prompt her confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, fluffy, smutty jonsa fanfic that might be the start of a bigger scene in my lawyers au fic. I'm not sure if this is exactly how I want it to go, and I still need to work out how it fits into the larger series, so it's in my drabbles collection for now. Almost worked this in for Day 3: Confessions of @jonxsansafanfiction Valentine’s Challenge, but didn’t manage it. I'm myrish-lace-love on tumblr if you want to say hi!

Sansa had cried before, in movie theaters, and when reading heartbreaking stories and okay, inevitably, at puppy commercials, but tearing up because of a toothbrush had to be a first, even for her.

Jon’s green toothbrush was right there, next to the sink, placed neatly in a glass.

It’d been several blissful months since the two of them became, well, a couple. They’d logged many hours on a landlord/tenant trial – not the kind of dispute that a big, pricey firm like Tyrell & Tyrell would normally handle. Olenna Tyrell, the firm’s matriarch, had realized pretty quickly that the case could have some genuine significance, particularly when it involved categorically evicting wildlings from their homes. Jon and Sansa had wiped the floor with Baelish lawyers, and won. Sansa still had the thank-you card from Gilly, with a picture of her baby tucked inside.

The long days they’d spent working had brought them closer. They’d ended up friends, then started dating, and now they spent most of their nights together. Sansa had an apartment to herself – Margaery had moved out a few years ago when she and Oberyn had gotten serious. So Jon usually stayed over at her place. Jon’s roommate Sam was sweet, but Jon and Sansa liked waking up in the mornings when it was just the two of them. Sansa would fumble for the alarm as the sun peeked through the blinds, and Jon would start kissing her, soft and slow. Sansa would sigh and lean into him more often than not, loving how he murmured sweet words as he traced her ears with his lips. Half the time they were both a little late for work, blushing in the elevator and scrambling to their desks. Jon would kiss her cheek before the elevator doors chimed open, if they were alone. Her friend Margaery’s office was next to hers, and Margaery teased her about how she hardly needed to wear makeup these days to get “that on-trend dewy look.”  

Now here she was, sniffling in the bathroom mirror. She ran her hands through her mussed hair, splashed some water on her face, and tried to pull it together. She was an adult. She could handle this. No need to get over-dramatic about it. All she had to do was pad back to the bed, and not chicken out.  

When she lifted up the covers, Jon rolled over, taking her in his arms. He nuzzled her hair, giving her a half-asleep smile. 

She stopped him before he could start kissing her, blurting out, “I love your toothbrush, Jon.” 

He paused, blinking, still a little groggy. “Thank you? I think I got it at Walgreens?”

 _Way to go, Sansa._ Olenna Tyrell was going to stop bringing the interns by for Sansa’s ‘How to Make a Closing Argument’ training, at this rate. “No, no, I love…seeing it. That you feel comfortable to leave it in my apartment–”

His mouth quirked. “Only on the right side of the sink, away from….whatever all those purple soaps are."

She gave him a watery smile. "Lavender. Lavender soaps. You did finally remember that part.”

“I aim to please.” He reached for her again. If she didn’t say it now, she’d lose her nerve. This wasn’t the best place, or time, she’d wanted to tell him somewhere he could easily leave if he needed to. These types of confessions hadn’t gone well for her in the past. 

She sat up and put a hand on his chest. “Jon wait…. your toothbrush, it means you’re staying, that I get to wake up with you the next morning. And you understand my jokes and you make sure I don’t wear myself out working too hard and I still get butterflies in my stomach when you take my hand.“ She couldn’t look at him yet, she couldn’t. She kept her eyes fixed on the subtle stripes of the light blue bedspread. “You get me, and I think I get you, and…I love you, I have for a while now.” The last few words were a whisper. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Why had she decided to do this while they were in bed together? He wasn’t going to be able to make a graceful exit, and he hadn’t said a word. 

Jon covered her hand with his own. She could feel that his heart was beating fast too. “Sansa, can you look at me?” His voice was impossibly tender. That gave her the courage to look up. She couldn’t stare at the blankets for the rest of her life, though she was tempted.

His dark eyes were warm. He moved closer, sitting up with her, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “You know we had dinner reservations for tonight, right?”

Sansa was a bit thrown off by the change in topic, but she nodded. Jon cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I was going to….to tell you I loved you, tonight, to ask you to go for a walk by the river–"

“Where we used to go during late nights.” She remembered how Jon would take her for a stroll on the riverfront to help her clear her head when they’d both been working on briefs for twelve hours straight, at the end of the trial. She could still recall the first time he laced his fingers with his.

“Yes. The first time I held your hand. I love you too, Sansa. I have for longer than I’d like to admit. You’re sweet, and sarcastic, and brilliant, and kind, and I was nervous about telling you, because–“

“You didn’t want to pressure me.” She smiled at him.

“Yes.” He blushed. She was still dizzy from his confession, toying with the ends of his dark curls, feeling playful and free. She tackled him, giddy. He fell back on the pillows, laughing, and she thrilled at the thought of how rarely Jon laughed, how she was one of the few people who got to hear the sound. 

“We’re calling in sick today, Jon Snow, and you’re going to show me how you love me.” Jon slid his hand up the back of her neck. “Can I tell you, too? I’ve almost slipped so many times, Sansa, here in this bed, but I didn’t want you to hear it first that way, I didn’t want you to think I loved you–“

“Just because we have hot, passionate sex and you like to look at me naked?” She let out a small yelp when he pulled her down and kissed her, ardently, licking into her mouth. She was panting when they broke away.

Jon’s gaze was heated. “I love to look at you naked, Sansa.” Sansa sighed happily as Jon eased her onto her back.  She shivered as his breath ghosted over her collarbone, then her navel. She dropped her head onto her pillow when he positioned himself between her legs, humming with anticipation. Soon, she was moaning his name as he licked and sucked, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He wrung every last drop of pleasure from her as she peaked, tossing her head on the pillows, cresting again and again until she pushed him away weakly. He kissed his way back up her body, grazing the undersides of her breasts with his beard, finally finding her lips again. “I love how you taste, Sansa, I dream about it, how sweet you are, how I can’t wait until I can get my mouth on you again.”

“ _Jon_ –“ Sansa wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand it much longer. The potent combination of his words and his touch had her squirming underneath him, practically begging for relief, for the feel of him inside her.

He didn’t make her wait. He entered her, easing her ache. His hands framed her face. “‘I love you, beautiful girl.” His voice was husky, and his eyes were a darker shade of brown than she’d ever seen.

She traced his parted lips with her thumb. “I love you too, Jon.” She pulled him closer as he started to move, lost in the sensation, rejoicing at how she could tell him as many times as she wanted, now, that she loved him, that he was hers, and she was his.  


	11. The Next Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I wish had happened aster that forehead kiss in the snow between Jon and Sansa in Season 6.

Jon sat in his solar, mulling how he’d failed, kissing Sansa’s forehead. He’d given too much away, touched her for too long. Jon ran a hand over his face. He needed to do a better job of hiding his emotional turmoil. Sansa was safe, she was home, and he’d have only those pleasant thoughts occupy her mind.

He heard a soft knock at the door and knew it was her. He stood up, his stomach in knots, and told her to come in. She looked hesitant, and uncertain, and he started composing the apology he knew he owed her. But then she was next to him, reaching for him, and it would take a stronger man than Jon to resist her as she drew him down for a kiss.

Sansa tasted like snow, and Winterfell, and lemons, and this was worse than when he’d broken his vows with Ygritte. A small, insistent voice in his head kept repeating _she’s your sister, stop, now_ , but he couldn’t, he kissed her cheek, her jawline, her lips. Sansa put her hands in his shoulders and he wrapped his arms around her waist. How could something so wrong feel this right, and natural, and good? Jon couldn’t say how long they kissed, but when they broke apart he was desperate to see the expression in her blue eyes. He needed to find out if she regretted what they’d done, the boundary they’d transgressed.

Jon could tell she was pleased, and he was able to breathe easier. Sansa trailed her fingers down his chest, making his heart skip. “How long have you wanted to kiss me, Jon?” He wasn’t going to start lying to her now. His mouth was dry, but he got the words out. “Since you first came back to me, Sansa.” She let out a small sigh. “Then at least I’m not alone.” She rested her head on Jon’s shoulder. He held her close in the home they’d taken back together. He was pretty sure there was no happy ending ahead for the two of them. But right now, for this moment, he let himself bask in the miracle that he was alive, and holding the woman he loved in his arms.


	12. Sansa/Theon Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short piece about Sansa and Theon reuniting. Sansa, Yara (aka Asha), Daenerys, and Tyrion are at Dragonstone. Sansa’s traveled there from Winterfell because *reasons*. Yara watches Sansa and Theon reunite and hears more from Sansa about Theon’s bravery at Winterfell.

Sansa whispered in Theon’s ear. Theon’s knees gave out from under him. Sansa knelt with him on the stone floor and held him, like a mother holding a child. Sansa had Theon’s face in her hands, she was done talking, and Theon looked up at her. She shook him, gently, and all Yara could make out was Theon saying _yes._

***

The wind howled past the windows in the dining room. They were a small, travel-worn group: Tyrion in his leather jerkin embroidered with gold, Sansa in her blue dress and grey wool cloak, Daenerys looking as impervious to the weather as ever in a white silk gown. Was she ever cold? Theon had retired early under Yara’s glare.

“You think him broken,” Sansa said.

Yara grunted, tearing a hunk of salted bread. “He is. He told me himself. Ramsey broke him.”

_They told me you were back and I didn’t believe it. Theon Greyjoy, I said. He’s dead. He’s been dead a long time._

“Yes, but you think him broken still. You say you need him to be Theon Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands again.”

Sansa’s grabbed Yara’s arm. “Ramsey had him longer than he had me. And Ramsey needed me, parts of me, intact, parts he didn’t need from him.” Yara caught Tyrion’s grimace.

“He agrees with you, Yara. He thinks himself broken. But he saved my life. I was about to be shot through with an arrow in one of those un-needed parts by Ramsey’s mistress. He was living in the kennels, brutalized just like me, and he found it in himself to push her off the ramparts and kill her. That’s why we got out. That’s why I survived, why he survived. It’s why Ramsey’s dead, now, at least by our hands.”

Yara shifted uneasily in her chair. Maybe Theon had been stronger than she knew. "Yara, he needs you to believe in him, to believe him whole again. I know you want him to believe it himself. But he needs you to believe in him harder than Ramsey hurt him. He needs you to love him as much as Ramsey despised him. He needs to understand that he was always Theon Greyjoy, even at his lowest, even when he couldn’t call himself anything other than Reek. There was a part of him that Ramsey never owned.“ Sansa’s eyes were blazing and her grip was fierce, and Yara knew Sansa was also talking about herself.

“Tell him that, believe it, make him believe it, because it’s true.”

Yara looked Sansa up and down, wary, and nodded, once.


	13. A gift for a girl who no longer exists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gives Sansa a small gift, which creates a storm of conflicting emotions for Sansa. See the next chapter for a happier ending!

It shouldn’t matter as much to her as it does, this small silver hairnet of blue and white stones that Jon’s just given her, stammering all the while.

Sansa remembers when gifts and jewels filled her daydreams. She’d while away the hours spinning stories about the favors she’d graciously bestow on golden knights, and the gowns and jewels suitors would shower her with as they tried to woo her.

Sansa’s gowns are simple now, made by her own hand as she sits in the Lord’s Chambers Jon prepared for her. She sews designs that are easy to take on and off. Lords and ladies alike compliment her on the elegant, sweeping lines. She smiles, and keeps the true reason to herself - she can’t bear the thought of anyone touching her, even if only to help her dress. 

She turns away offers of ladies’ maids, and wears her hair plainly, spilling over her shoulders. Some of her advisers think it’s a strategic move, a “banner for all the North to see,” a subtle reminder of her lady mother. Sansa’s not blind to the symbolism, and uses it to her advantage, But she also can’t bear to have someone stand behind her, to brush and braid her hair. The feeling is too intimate, and too vulnerable. So she pins pieces away from her face, and lets the rest fall free. 

Jon devotes too much time to her comfort, now that he’s King in the North. He asks after whether she’s eating, and makes sure her chambers are well-stocked with logs. When she confronts him about it, he rubs the back of his head and mumbles a few words about remembering how cold she was at the Wall.

She’s frustrated he recalls her moment of weakness. She’s also touched.

Now, as she pours the hairnet through her fingers, she starts to smile. She thinks how she could make a gown match, with embroidery that would bring out the shine of the silver metal. But she’s afraid of opening up that part of herself again. She’s wary of giving voice to the girl inside her who still loves pretty things, and might, just might, believe in songs. 

Jon sees her face fall. He sways towards her, then stops. “Do you…is it the wrong size?”

Sansa can’t hold back a small laugh. Jon’s stance eases. “No, Jon, I can adjust the hairstyle, a hairnet can’t be too small.”

Jon looks as relieved as he does when a favorable report comes in about their growing support from the Northern houses. “Good, that’s good. I just thought it would…look nice, with your hair.”

At King’s Landing, men had recited poetry for Sansa. She’d even received a few fanciful, beautifully written love notes delivered by secret messengers. All were politically motivated, calculated to test her loyalty, to Joffrey, or to Tyrion. She’d learned to steel herself to sweet gestures. So she’s not sure why she’s fighting back tears at Jon’s simple words. 

“Sansa, are you all right?” Sansa glances at Jon. His brow is furrowed, and he’s nervous again. She wishes he’d leave, and let her vent her unruly emotions in peace. She wishes he’d open his arms, so she could walk into them, because she thinks his touch might be one she could welcome. 

Sansa nods, composing herself. “Yes. Thank you Jon. I’ll…” She has a response ready from her prior life - a promise to wear the gift soon. But she can’t give Jon that promise. As talented as she is, without a ladies’ maid, she can’t craft a style on her own that would allow her to place the net in her hair. So there will be no gown with silver thread, and no moment where she gazes into her mirror, admiring how the stones bring out the color of her eyes. “I’ll keep it safe. It’s beautiful.” 

Jon shifts his weight. He seems about to say something more, but instead awkwardly takes his leave. Sansa carefully stows the gift away in a drawer. She takes it out from time to time, allowing herself to hold the stones up to the light, before tucking it away again. The girl who loves this gift can have a few moments of Sansa’s time, but no more. There’s a war on, after all, and Winter is here.


	14. I don't know about kings, but I'll help you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally works up the courage to tell Jon she needs help brushing her hair. Does he help her? Of course he does! A sequel to the previous chapter, "a gift for a girl who no longer exists" :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you've read a lot of my other work, you'll see this is a bit of a remix of the first chapter of one of my longer WIPs. I just couldn't leave our girl so sad, hanging out there on her own! Hope you enjoy!

Sansa tried to be scrupulous about appearances. They mattered. She knew that better than most. The Lannisters had wrapped her in lions, complete with teeth and claws, the day she wed Tyrion. She’d worn her own dress emblazoned with a wolf when staring Ramsay down, and she’d drawn strength from it.

So she was angry she’d let her hair get away from her. The past week hadn’t given any of them a moment’s rest. A raven had come to Winterfell heralding the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa heard whispers of the queen’s beauty, even this far north. She’d thought herself past vanity. Apparently she’d been mistaken. She was vain enough to want her hair to shine like burnished copper, as it had when her mother brushed it, so she could greet the queen with confidence. But late nights and early mornings had forced her to braid her hair quickly, to keep it out of the way of the maps spread out hastily in Winterfell’s great hall.

Now it was tangled, hopelessly, in the back. She was standing, scowling at her reflection. _I don’t have time for this_.

She heard a knock at the door. “Sansa, it’s Jon. May I come in?” She almost turned him away. But the news he carried could be important, and she couldn’t shut herself in her room forever.

“Yes, come in please, Jon.” He closed the door, cutting off the colder air from the hallway. Sansa cursed as the brush got stuck once again. Jon seemed shocked. She’d probably never cursed in front of him before.

“Sansa, what’s wrong?”

Sansa was too tired to lie. She’d have to tell him. She sighed, setting the brush down. “Jon, promise, please, not to laugh.” Jon looked about as far away from laughing as possible, but then again, he usually looked solemn. “I won’t, Sansa.”

“It’s-“ Sansa gestured fruitlessly to the back of her head. “My hair, Jon, it’s tangled, and I can’t brush through it. And no, I can’t ask a lady’s maid for help, I can’t ask anyone for help, because I can’t let them-“

Jon strode across the room, and his arms were around her before she could get out the rest of the warning. Sansa stiffened, and Jon loosened his grip, ready to release her. He felt...good, warm and solid, and Sansa focused on her breathing. _He won’t hurt me. He won’t_. She gathered up her courage and leaned into him. Jon held her a little tighter, and waited. She sensed he was ready to stand there all night, even all week.

“Sansa, you don’t have to explain.” Jon’s voice was low, and soft, and she could feel his words reverberate in his chest. She held on to his shirt with one hand. “I just – if there’s anything I can do, to help you, please tell me.”

Sansa focused on the feel of Jon’s stubble against her cheek, and the scent of leather that clung to him. Maybe she could make a jest, to get out the mess she’d found herself in. “Do kings brush hair?”

Jon tilted his ear towards her. “Hm?” She couldn’t blame him. She’d spoken directly into the fabric of his shirt. She pulled back, and tried for lightness. “Kings. Do they brush hair?”

She waited for a hint of a smile. Instead Jon held her gaze, his eyes dark and serious. “I don’t know about kings, Sansa, but I’d try, if you wanted.”

Sansa didn’t trust herself to speak just then, so she reached for the silver brush on her table. Her hand shook slightly. She held it out to him. Jon took the handle from her. He still hadn’t let her go, and Sansa found she didn’t want him to. She felt safe, and wished she could keep him here, in her chambers. That thought led to other half-suppressed feelings she knew she had to ignore, so she turned, and sat.

Jon was at a loss, but determined. He cleared his throat. "Is it better if I stand?"

"It's easier if you sit in a chair behind me."

"I saw your mother and you like that, once." Jon pulled up a chair behind her. He was quiet, which was a blessing. Sansa expected the large knots in her hair were intimidating. She was about to give Jon some advice, to tell him he might have to start with his fingers, when he made quick work of the first tangles. She looked at him in the mirror, surprised. “Have you done this before, Jon?”

Jon shrugged. "I brushed horses at the Wall," he said, and then shut his eyes. "I can't believe I just said that out loud." Sansa was speechless. The chagrin on Jon’s face was too much, and Sansa couldn't help a small laugh at his expense.

She covered her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry, Jon, that was unkind.”

“No, it’s all right. It’s...I’m glad to hear you laugh.” The corner of Jon’s mouth turned up, and he kept working. "Your hair's so fine, anyway," he said gently, "the knots come out easily." Sansa knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. The tangled mess was challenging, but Jon was patient. Soon Sansa closed her eyes, tilting her head back. It was such a luxury, to have someone do this for her. It was such a luxury not to flinch at someone's touch. She heard his chair scrape against the floor to get a bit closer. She felt his fingertips at her temple, lightly, at the beginning of each stroke through her hair.

"Is this too hard?"

"No, Jon, you're gentler than mother was." She yawned, and dimly realized he'd not told her where he needed to be next. 

***

When she woke the room was dim. The sun had almost set. She could feel Jon's presence behind her. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not that long."

He was a terrible liar. "Jon, the sun's gone down, it's been at least a few hours. Were you here, the whole time?"

"Aye I didn't - you looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sansa."

"How did you get out that one huge knot in the back?" She couldn't believe she'd slept through that.

"I just...concentrated," he said, and something in his tone made her shiver. "Do you need me to braid it? You'd have to show me, it always looks so intricate, around your head, small braids and large ones." His forehead creased. A man ready to lead an army to war, flummoxed at the thought of dressing a woman's hair. She could only imagine what he would have made of the elaborate styles she'd worn back when she thought Cersei Lannister was the height of grace and beauty.

Sansa did want his help, and soon. She wanted to wear his gift, the hairnet he'd given her. But this wasn't the time. "No, you'd better go, I'm sure Davos and Tormund are wondering where you are by now." He looked at her in confusion and she sighed, inwardly. _Think, Jon, you spent hours in your sister's bedroom, unplanned, people see, they talk_. He got up with a strange reluctance and paused at the door.

"Good night, Sansa."

"Good night, Jon." Her hair flowed like silk as pulled it over one shoulder. She looked down at the silver brush on the table. There was barely a strand caught in it. She wouldn't have been half so careful herself. Sansa braided her hair back to keep it from tangling again while she slept and threw two extra logs on for light and warmth. She slept well, and long, that night, dreaming of copper and fire and Jon’s dark eyes.


	15. A rare truth in a world of lies (Jon x Sansa)

Jon x Sansa - kissing to save the day

***

Sansa tugged Jon out of the ballroom and into the corridor, trying to confirm the message she’d just heard in her earpiece.

Jon had gotten better at this spy business in the past year, so his face betrayed only a flicker of surprise when he found himself up against the wall in a flash.

“You’re sure,” Sansa asked, heart racing as she arranged the train of her green dress and made sure Jon was snug against her chest, “we have to kiss ‘like two fools in love?’”

“All right, Jon,” she murmured, “apparently the King of Spain’s besotted with me and on his way to set off a nuclear bomb, but if we kiss like we mean it, we’ll derail him so just…imagine whoever you need to, but we’ve got to be believably in love.”

Jon tucked a lock of her hair gently behind her ear, whispering, “I don’t have to imagine, Sansa, because you’re right here in front of me,” and when he kissed her, sighing her name once more when she opened her mouth to him, she knew he was telling the truth.


	16. Robb's fault (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For dialux, for her 5 plus 1 sentence prompt about Jon and Sansa learning to dance. Like I said on tumblr, I tried to channel her amazing writing style a little bit! :)

Jon and Sansa are learning to dance.

***

Jon definitely wasn’t nervous, I mean how could he be, it was only Sansa, Sansa who he’d had a crush on for - well, years, let’s just admit it, ok, and who, through some cruel twist of fate he was going to have to dance with, right out in public on a dance floor alongside people who 1) knew what a beat was and 2) could follow it. 

 _I blame Robb_ , Jon thought, as he stretched in front of the mirror – Robb who’d had the audacity to get engaged, and make him the best man, and who’d let Jeyne talk him into a paired dance with the members of the wedding party – Jon wasn’t sure, but he remembered Jeyne hanging over Robb’s shoulder and cooing in his ear something like “It’ll be adorable, sweetheart, and I’m sure they won’t mind.” 

 _No, I won’t mind, I’ll be bloody terrified, thank you very muc_ h, because of course Sansa was his partner, and Sansa was a graceful, ethereal woman who practically danced when she  _walked_ , for crying out loud, which was why Jon got to the dance studio early every morning, before Sansa showed up, to squeeze in some practice that might help him avoid squashing all her toes this week. 

He’d gotten better, slowly, which, for Jon, wasn’t saying much – he could occasionally keep up with Sansa, even spin her across the studio a few times, thanks to the help of their very friendly dance instructor, who was always willing to cut in and help Jon practice, and she’d been totally cool about letting Jon come early, as long as she could stand on the sidelines and watch, which was a little weird when he thought about it, actually, but the  _point_ was he was a little closer to making Sansa happy, and when Sansa smiled at him after he completed a move without falling over he wanted to get down on his knees and propose and – god, he needed to get his emotions in check because she’d be here any minute now. 

Right on cue she swung through the door, in her leggings and pink tank top, which did  _not_ help his concentration, though he most certainly didn’t mind the view, and he had to hide his surprise and the pounding of his heart when she kissed him on the cheek, whispering “it’s so sweet, all the effort you’re putting into this Jon, it really means the world to me,” and that was it, he’d get here before the sun rose now, because more than anything he wanted to make her proud, and show her she meant the world to him, too. 


	17. Pyjamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon convinces Sasna pyjamas are sexy after all. For Amymel - thanks for the prompt! :)

Pyjamas really are underrated when it comes to arousing attire.

*** 

Sansa was sitting on the couch this morning, wearing a white tank top and fleece pants with hearts on them, a tiny line creasing her forehead as she tried to wrap up her essay.

Jon knew he shouldn’t bother her, not when she had a big project to finish for her boss, who let’s be honest, was a little bit of a dragon, but she looked so tantalizing he couldn’t help walking over and brushing her hair away from her neck.

“Jon don’t, not now,” she murmured, distracted but sounding pleased nonetheless, and it encouraged him to bend down and kiss that particular spot behind her ear that made her gasp.

“Jon…” Sansa was breathing faster now, and Jon slid onto the couch next to her, gathering her up in his arms, savoring how warm she was as he nuzzled her neck.

“You’re beautiful like this, sweet girl,” he said, and when she turned to him, incredulous, he cut off her “Jon, they’re only pyj-“ with a hungry kiss as he cupped the back of her head, determined to show her just how enticing fleece pants and a tank top could be.


	18. Red as the fire of her hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the trailer to Season 7 where Jon is fuuuuuuuuuuuurious at Littlefinger and the amazing edits by greengableslover on tumblr :)

He was half-man, half-wolf, as he threw Littlefinger against the wall.  Red mist swam before his eyes. 

The sound of Littleflinger’s skull hitting the stone was muffled by the heavy, close air of the crypts.

 _You will not touch her_ , Jon thought.

“Never,” he growled. “Never. She will never be your wife.” He needed to choke him, strangle him, snap his head from his neck and tear his entrails from his belly…

Jon slowly loosened his grip as he realized how far Ghost had taken him.

Littlefinger managed to smirk as he gasped for air. “Temper, Your Grace. Such passion, such devotion for a…brother to show a  _sister_.”

Jon’s stomach sank.  _He knows_. Littlefinger sensed, somehow, the longing he felt for Sansa, the desire he couldn’t bear to admit to himself.

“She is safe here in Winterfell,” he whispered. She was. Jon would not shame her by revealing how he felt.  _I’ll protect you, I promise_.

Littlefinger raised an eyebrow. The shadows from the torchlight played over his face. “Yes. Of course, Your Grace,” he wheezed. Jon saw the hint of a smile flicker over his lips. 

Jon could have roared in anger. He had Littlefinger cornered. Trapped. And even so, he knew in his bones this still wasn’t over. 


	19. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Ned's death, the Stark family tries to celebrate Sansa’s promotion to chief editor of a fashion magazine she's worked at for five years. They throw a fancy dinner party. When Sansa breaks down in the middle of the meal, Jon takes her to the creek behind the Stark mansion to comfort her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is very sad, y'all. Just...fair warning. I've been going through a bit of a time myself lately.

Sansa leaned into Jon’s side as they walked down the path. He pulled his jacket tighter against the wind. The woods behind the Stark family home were dark, but Jon could just make out the water in the moonlight.  The iron bench was under a large oak tree.

Sansa sat down heavily. Jon slipped in next to her, carefully, as if she was made of glass.

“I’m not fragile, Jon.” She scooted next to him.

“I know.” He smiled despite himself. They sat quietly for a few minutes. The leaves rustled above them. An owl called out in the night, and another answered, far upriver.  

Sansa was trembling, from the cold, or from something deeper.  Jon put his arm around her.  He wished he could draw the pain out from her, take it on himself, suck it down like poison.

She clutched at the lapel of his jacket.  “I just…I think my dad would have been proud, you know?” 

“He would have, Sansa.” Jon said softly. He wanted to kiss her forehead.  

Sansa sniffed. “But he’s gone. He’ll never know I did it. That I got the job.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.  “He won’t say ‘that’s my girl’ so low no one else hears.” 

Jon held her closer. He still felt the ache in his chest every day, from when his own mother had died so many years before.

“It gets easier, right Jon? It has to. It _has_ to, or - I just don’t know, how much of this I can take.”

 _Lie to me,_ Jon heard. 


	20. A prince in disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa are in high school together. Sansa's known Jon, her brother Robb's best friend, for a long time. Today she tries to rescue him from embarrassing himself in the halls when he's awkwardly asking a girl to the upcoming prom. In the end, Jon learns why Sansa herself isn't going to the dance, and helps her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right y'all. It has been one shitty week, and I needed to write some quick straight-up wish fulfillment fic here. 
> 
> This is a "rewrite the past" moment. Basically I dated a guy in high school who wanted to split the cost of prom. Which was totally legit! Just made me sad, for completely unfair, non-feminist reasons. :) 
> 
> So here's Jon Snow being all chivalrous with Sansa Stark in similar circumstances. (Normally I'm a big believer in everybody pays their way! I'm probably gonna wake up tomorrow and be embarrassed about this.)
> 
> This is another one of Amymel86's first sentence prompts! :)

“I'm sorry... I'll stop soon, I promise...”

Sansa had never seen anyone fail so spectacularly at flirting. Clearly, Jon needed her help.  Jeyne Westerling was looking at Jon like he was a slightly unpleasant meal. 

She couldn’t get to him in time, though. Jeyne had left by the time Sansa met Jon at the water fountain. 

Sansa nudged Jon with her backpack. They had a few minutes before third period started. They’d be paired up for Spanish class. In fact, they shared all the same classes in the afternoon. “Spill.”

Jon leaned back against the lockers. “Sam put me up to it.” He closed his eyes. 

Jon had filled out in the past year, Sansa thought. His dark hair was loose around his shoulders. Her brother’s best friend was becoming a bit of a looker. 

Even if he couldn’t charm his way out of a paper bag. 

“Jon, do you want to go to this dance? Do you even like her?”

Jon scuffed the floor with his boot. “No, not really.” He gave her a small, sad glance. “Not much of a dancer. Sure that’s a shock to you.” 

Sansa didn’t bother to shrug. Jon had a long and storied history of falls and stumbles in the Stark household. One Thanksgiving he’d face-planted while holding a tray of mashed potatoes. The floor had smelled like gravy for a week. 

“C’mon. Walk me to my locker?”

“You’re just asking because you want me to carry your books,” he mumbled, though he was already following her.

“They’re heavy,” she said airily. “Besides, you said you didn’t mind. Right?” 

“I don’t,” he murmured. Sansa thought she could hear a smile in his voice. “So, when is Joffrey picking you up next Saturday? Is he getting a limo?”

Sansa winced. Jon didn’t mean anything by it. She knew he was teasing. Still. It hurt. 

“Sansa. What’s wrong?”

Sansa spun her lock. She really didn’t want to talk about it.  She thought of the blue dress in the back of her closet. The one she'd almost shredded after Joffrey broke up with her. The night she had planned with Margaery, who was a freshman in college and way past high school dances. 

“Well, I’m not getting my money back, I can tell you that, Jon.” The slam of the metal door wasn’t that loud. Really, it wasn’t. Only seven or eight people turned to look. 

“...What?” Jon seemed thoroughly confused. 

She’d come this far. Might as well finish the story. She hadn’t confided this part to anyone. 

Sansa sighed. “We were splitting the cost of the dance. The tickets, the tux rental. We’re not going now. So I’m out $100.”

Jon blinked. “Wait, you mean he asked you to pay to go to your own prom?”

Sansa stacked her books for third, fourth and fifth periods into Jon’s arms. “He would have had to pay otherwise. It's not really fair, after all, for the guy to pay for everything.”  She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. It was a double standard.

Deep down, though, she had been disappointed. Sad. 

Not a rational reaction, and definitely not from this century.

Also, it was not lost on her that she was asking Jon to carry her books. Maybe Joffrey had been right. She was a spoiled princess. 

"Wanker," Jon muttered under his breath 

“Jon!” She’d never heard Jon swear. 

“Sorry, just...well, how did you feel about it?”

Sansa bit her lip. “I mean, he had a point of course, I...” 

This was Jon, who’d seen her in braces and kept her secret when she’d snuck out to get her ears pierced. He’d even picked her up when she’d chickened out once the mall employee got out that large and terrifying ear piercing gun. 

She could confess how unhappy she was. He had his head bent near hers, and she caught a whiff of the cologne he’d starting wearing a few months ago. She felt like it was just the two of them despite the throngs of students in the corridor.

“I wanted to be a princess for a night, Jon. To get swept off my feet. To dress up and wear a corsage made of roses and not think about anything except being on the arm of the guy who was taking me to the dance.”

Joffrey Baratheon was not that guy.   
  
Jon shifted her books to his other arm. "It's not wrong to want that, I don't think. Not that you asked," he added hastily.  “But I mean...maybe a guy wants to be a prince, you know? Take a beautiful lady out. Treat her like a princess. Make her forget the rest of the world for a minute. Know he was the one who made her smile."

Sansa wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Jon cleared his throat. ”Anyway. Off to class?”

“...Sounds good.” Sansa was thoughtful. _You might not be so bad at flirting after all, Jon Snow_.

Jon, who carried her books and looked out for her and maybe, just maybe was a prince in disguise. 

Too bad he was shy, and she’d just been burned. They didn’t mention the dance at all for the rest of the day. 

At this rate, they'd both be stuck at home watching TV and eating ice cream. Probably for the best. Sansa didn't want to ruin a good friendship.

Though she did find herself daydreaming about Jon in a tux...

 


	21. Name-day gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon surprises his wife, Sansa, with a special name-day gift in the glass gardens at Winterfell. He had Sam's help putting it all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr prompt. This is nothing but straight-up uncomplicated pure fluff!

***

“Are your eyes closed?” Jon asked.

Sansa nodded.

“Keep them closed,” he said, as he opened a door. The heat and humidity in the room told her instantly they were in the glass gardens. She could hear the splash of a water fountain, and smell roses in the air. The crunch of her boots on the gravel was loud to her ears.

She stumbled over a pebble, and Jon had to catch her. 

“Jon, really, what’s all this fuss about?”

“All right, you can open them now.” Jon sounded shy.

A lemon tree was growing in the corner. Five or six lemons nestled in the bright green leaves.

“We’ve never been able to grow one in Winterfell before,” Jon said, “but I wrote to Sam. He told us the key was…” Jon faltered.

“Well?”

“Chicken manure,” Jon mumbled.

Sansa snorted. “Well. I needn’t think too long about how they’re made.” She picked one ripe fruit near the bottom of the tree. The pebbled skin was cool against her palm. She couldn’t resist closing her eyes again and inhaling deeply. The citrus scent made her mouth water.

When she looked up, Jon was smiling at her – that beautiful, rare smile that lit up his whole face.

Sansa examined the tree again. The narrow branches reached towards the light. Jon had placed the tree in a prime spot in the gardens, where it took in as much sun as the sky could spare. Suddenly she felt spoiled, and guilty.

“Jon, this is too costly, too dear, for the lemons it yields, we need food-“

“We have food,” he said gently, “from the Vale, and from the start of the new spring.  I wanted this to be your name-day gift, love. A reminder that there’s sweetness in the world if you know where to look.” He took her hand. “You taught me that, when we wed.”

Sansa touched his cheek. She remembered the nightmares beyond counting Jon had. How he’d wake up roaring, or worse, struggling to breathe. She’d stroke his hair and murmur, over and over, that Spring had arrived. That they’d defeated the White Walkers. Finally, color would creep back into his cheeks and his pulse would slow. She’d fold him in her arms, and he’d be able to sleep again.

Jon brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Will you let me do this for you, sweet girl? Give you back the gift you gave me?”

Sansa smiled. After a moment she trusted herself to speak. “Well we can’t exactly upend it now, can we? With all the time and effort you and Sam put in?” She put her arm around his waist and leaned into him. “A lemon tree, growing in Winterfell.” They stood that way for a long time, their heads bent together, unaware of the visitors who stepped respectfully around them on the garden path.

 

 


	22. Cuddling headcanons (Jon x Sansa)

Jon’s touch-starved. He grew up raised by a distant aunt who didn’t love him so he’s surprised at how free Sansa is with physical affection. But he loves it. And he’s secretly amazed, for the first two years, that when he pulls her in for a hug she melts in his arms.

Jon’s a little obsessed with Sansa’s hair.He loves to take it down when they’re alone. He loves to run his hands through her hair when he kisses her. But he especially loves it when she curls up like a cat on his lap and lets him smooth his hand over her hair till she falls asleep.

Sansa’s a people person and a hard worker, but she does get overwhelmed. Since Jon’s not always the best talker, they have a system where Sansa sends him a cup of tea emoji when she’s stressed. When she comes home Jon doesn’t have tea ready but he just opens his arms and she walks into them. She’s surrounded by his warmth and scent and it’s better than anything else at relaxing her.

Sansa and Jon aren’t big on pda in public, but they hold hands all the time. When they’re walking down the street, at restaurants, in the audience at their kids’ dance recitals. When their son Robb  is five, he asks why Daddy always holds Mommy’s hand even when they’re not crossing the street. Jon just looks over at Sansa and smiles and says “because she’s always holding onto my heart.” Little Robb is completely confused.

But much later, when he falls in love for the first time, he understands what his Dad meant.


	23. How do I tell you I miss you? (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s long departure forces Sansa to send a raven to Dragonstone. Sansa finds it harder than she expected to write to Jon. Takes places after the events of Season 7 Episode 4 of Game of Thrones

Sansa sat alone in her solar, tapping her quill on the table. She needed to be quick, or the ink would dry before she’d started. 

She could still hear Arya’s sword ringing with Brienne’s in the courtyard. Her sister had moved like a cat, like a dancer, coming to a draw again and again with Brienne. 

What had Arya lived through, to fight so gracefully and with such deadly precision? What drove her to keep a list of enemies close to her chest?

Sansa had wheeled Bran to his own chambers an hour ago.

What had Bran endured, to come back with no trace of his boyish smile, of the sweet summer child he had been? Why had he recounted her own personal nightmares as they sat under the weirwood tree? He’d apologized for the cruelties she’d suffered at Ramsay’s hands in a strange, silky tone, staring at her all the while with cool brown eyes. 

Sansa suppressed a shiver. The Starks were reunited, and her heart was fuller for it, but her brother and sister had changed. Worry nipped at her heels. 

Jon had been gone for more than a fortnight, and the Northern lords were growing restless. She had to risk sending a raven to Dragonstone. What should she relay to Jon? 

_We’re all together now, Jon. Here in Winterfell. Arya can fight, you’d be so proud of her, so happy. Bran can see…the future, the past…I’m not sure._

She still hadn’t moved the quill. She missed Jon more each day. His absence was a fresh, stinging cut each morning.

Even when they’d bickered, she and Jon had built a foundation of trust, and respect. She’d experienced, briefly, what security and contentment could be like.  She’d felt safe enough to tease Jon, to challenge him. To touch him, without fear twisting in her gut. 

She didn’t realize how his departure would wreck her until he rode out to Dragonstone. She’d had to draw upon all of her training at King’s Landing to give him a small wave, nothing more. She’d saved her tears for the privacy of her bedroom.

She could manage without him. She  _was_ managing.  She had Littlefinger under control (and, perhaps, some plans for Bran’s dagger). She closed her eyes.

_Jon, I don’t need you to protect me. But…I do need you to love me. I need you here where I can see your smile and sit next to you at dinner. Even when we fight, I feel safer with you by my side._

She wiped her tears away. The time for crying and childish dreams was over. Jon had entrusted her with the North. There was a war to win. 

She dipped the quill in the ink pot and began. 


	24. Chocolate headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa both love chocolate lemon creams.

Jon loves chocolate. He’d never admit it, because it’s a pretty girly fixation, but he can hardly go a day without sneaking a piece. On bad weeks, when he’s stressed out at work, he brings entire bars of dark chocolate to the office. He’s sure no one’s the wiser. After all, he lives alone.

Until Sansa Stark is his Secret Santa in the office gift exchange. She shows up with an enigmatic smile, in a yellow cap-sleeve dress that is totally work appropriate, and somehow still makes Jon’s mouth dry. She’s carrying a beautifully wrapped box under her arm. The bow’s as big as a grapefruit.

“Hi, Sansa.” Jon hopes he sounds casual. Like he’s got his act together. Like he isn’t staring at the delicate diamond necklace that rests at the hollow of her throat.

“Hi Jon. I had to think  _forever_  about what to get you, I was completely stumped.” She sashays over to his desk. He stutters out a thank-you, and waits for her to leave.

“Well? Aren’t you going to open your present, Jon?” Sansa’s arms are crossed, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

He fumbles with the wrapping paper and finds a box of Ghirardelli chocolates. His favorite kind, lemon creams. How had she known?

“I peeked my head in one day and saw you with a box of these…they’re my favorite, too,” she whispers. There’s a playful glint in her eye. Jon smiles back.

Sansa toys with the ends of her hair. “So…do you mind if I stop by sometime? If I need a chocolate fix in the afternoon?” It slowly dawns on Jon that Sansa might, just might be hitting on him. He can hardly believe his luck. He nods again.

Sansa drops by every other day after Christmas, and Jon spends a lot of cash keeping his office stocked with their favorite treat. It’s worth it, though, when he works up the guts to tell her she has a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. She leans in so he can wipe the bit of chocolate away. The flush on her cheeks makes him bold enough to ask her out on their first date. 


	25. The prince that got away (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa exchange letters while Jon's at boarding school. Jon takes Sansa to a Halloween dance after she breaks up with Joffrey. Sansa's able to wear her handmade Cinderella dress, Jon's dressed up as Prince Charming, and they have a surprisingly lovely time. But Jon runs off at the end of the evening, and Sansa's crushed. He drops a glove at the bottom of the stairs, and Sansa keeps it, unsure of what to do, until Jon's next letter arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Halloween reverse ugly duckling / Cinderella headcanon that, um, got away from me. The fluffiest of fluff. I hope you enjoy it!

Sansa always dresses up as Cinderella on Halloween. She knows how to sew and she’s been making her own gown since she was ten. She’s seventeen now and it’s a marvel, sewn-on crystals, silver mesh overlay, tulle underskirts, A teen fashion magazine even asked her to do a shoot until Ned put his foot down. 

Joffrey was going to be Sansa’s Halloween dance date but they’ve broken up, and Sansa’s relieved. She’s also heartbroken, though she only lets a few close people know it. Margaery, Arya, and, oddly enough Robb’s best friend Jon, who’s been away at boarding school the past two years. 

Jon was hard to talk to when they were younger but he’s easy to write to. They started exchanging letters after Sansa clipped out an article about fencing from the newspaper, feeling like her bloody mom the whole time. She includes a note about how she hopes he’s found a fencing team. 

Jon surprised her by writing back, and now she hurries to the mailbox each day, because even though she’s pretty sure Margaery and Arya know about her pen-pal, she’d like to keep it her own secret for a little while. 

She writes him a wild, sad letter after the Joffrey breakup, almost like a diary entry, and before she can stop herself she mails it. She has a pit in her stomach the entire week, because if anything scares a guy off (and apparently Jon’s a guy she doesn’t want to scare off, but she’s not looking at that emotion too closely) it’s exclamation marks and crossed-out words and sort of general sobbing onto a page.

Jon’s letter back is the thickest one yet. He tells her that Joffrey sounds like an asshole, and he assumes Robb’s pummeled the prick, but if not Jon will happily sneak out and come home and do the job, and she almost believes him, he sounds so fierce.

But then he tells her funny stories about his boarding school mates, and she’s laughing for the first time in days reading about Pyp and Grenn and Sam and the Cafeteria Caper, he capitalizes it and everything, and it should be corny but it isn’t.

He ends by saying he hopes she doesn’t let Joffrey take Halloween away from her, and that she can still enjoy the magic of it like she did when they were kids. He says he’ll be there to cheer her on for the dance, he has an October break and he’ll be home Halloween weekend. 

She writes him back, her fingers shaking, and asks if he would think about being her date? She’d buy him the Prince Charming costume so he wouldn’t have to worry and she knows he doesn’t have long in town so she totally understands if he can’t do it and she’s babbling, in a  _letter_ , how she managed that she’s not sure. But she is nervous, when she slips the letter in the mailbox. She tells herself it probably won’t even get there in time. It’ll be good to see him next weekend either way. 

Margaery taps on her door Halloween afternoon and tells her to don that ethereal, gorgeous confection of a gown, because she’s got a surprise for her, and she  _is_ going to that dance. Sansa grumbles that she’s not in the mood for surprises, she’d rather have a good sulk, but Margaery tells her not to dawdle. Margaery won’t give her any details, just smiles that enigmatic smile when Sansa asks her what’s going on. 

Soon she’s being practically shoved outside. The Stark house is a mansion, really, set back from the street, with a long, winding staircase and a wrought iron railing. Spotlights show off her mother’s garden, and Sansa squints and sees….a man who must be Jon at the bottom of the steps. This Jon is dark, and filled out, and breathtakingly handsome, so different from the scrawny teen Sansa remembers that’s she’s thrown off guard for a minute. 

They go to the dance and he’s still Jon, awkward and shy, but she coaxes him out of it and thanks him for writing to her. They manage to start talking after that, and even though she’d expected Jon to step on her toes he doesn’t, not once. He confides that Pyp taught him to dance, a little, and she shoes away the silly thought that Jon might have practiced for her. 

It gets close to midnight and she leans in and murmurs she has to get back, or she’ll turn into a pumpkin. Jon says isn’t that the coach? 

She teases him, because he used to call Disney movies a tool of the patriarchy. Jon smiles at that, says she isn’t wrong. But maybe he watched one or two, because how could he form an opinion otherwise? 

They drive back to the Stark house and Jon gets out of the car to see her off. Sansa wonders playfully if she should leave her shoe on the stairs? Jon rubs the back of his head and says she can, but he knows her, he wouldn’t have to look for her, though he would if she wanted. His gaze is soft and serious, and suddenly Sansa isn’t so sure if they’re joking anymore. 

Sansa’s flustered, and can’t figure out how to say goodnight. In the end she hugs him, because they’re friends, almost family, and she should not feel the way she does about his dark eyes. 

He hugs her back for a beat too long and Sansa rests her head on his shoulder. Jon mumbles a question about whether he can still write to her and without thinking Sansa says she runs to the mailbox to check for his letters.

She pulls away from him mortified, stammering, until he confesses he does the same thing. His mates kid him about it, but what would his life be like if he didn’t know who won the next round of Dancing with the Stars? 

Sansa realizes he’s easing her fears, trying to reassure her. She takes his hand and squeezes it, leans in to kiss him on the cheek. He goes very still when she brushes her lips over his hint of a beard, and Sansa’s stomach drops, because she thinks she’s misjudged. He’s flushed and quiet and pulls his hand away without a word, hard enough that his glove falls onto the pavement. He almost runs to his car. 

Sansa’s shocked, sad, but resigned. She trudges up the stairs. What did she expect? She’s the kid sister of his best friend, he was doing her a favor, did she have to reach for more and try to kiss him?

She stops writing to Jon. She won’t even check the mail, because it’d hurt too much not to see his handwriting peeking out from between the adverts. 

Two weeks later Arya yells something in the hallway and an envelope shoots under her door like a hockey puck. Sansa’s heart pounds when she sees her name in Jon’s familiar scrawl.

Jon doesn’t tell her any stories, just starts out with a two-page long apology about how he’s sorry for bolting and she looked beautiful in her dress and he doesn't want to make her uncomfortable because they’re family and that’s more important than anything and Sansa starts to smile, because _Jon’s_  babbling in a letter, and it’s adorable, especially when he tells her at the end that if she’d give him another chance he would have kissed her back and he totally gets why that might be weird and she can absolutely burn this letter and he’ll act like nothing happened and he really cares about her, no matter what. 

She takes a deep breath and writes back, short but sweet, telling him she found a glove on the stairs, it belongs to a wonderful man who danced with her and made her feel special and ran away too soon and could he help her find him? 

Arya and Margaery go with Sansa to greet Jon when he pulls into the driveway for Thanksgiving dinner. Sansa hisses at them that she’d like a minute alone with Jon but Margaery just smirks and Arya crosses her arms and grins. Sansa sighs. She knows when she’s been beaten.

She considers it a small victory when they agree to stay on the landing. Sansa manages to give Jon the glove discreetly when he steps out of the car. He starts to try it on, bless him, but Sansa gently takes his wrist and says he doesn’t have to, she knows him after all, and that makes him smile. 

Jon cups the back of her head and pulls her closer. She can barely hear the hoots and hollers from the top of the stairs because Jon’s lips are soft and his hand’s pressed to the small of her back. He’s gentle, careful, chivalrous, like a prince,  _her_ prince, and she doesn’t plan on letting him get away this time. 


	26. The North remembers (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this tumblr writing prompt: Targaryen prince Jon promised to his Aunt if they win Westeros falls head over heels for the flame haired queen of the north who refuses to bend a knee.

Lady Sansa’s lords and ladies stood behind her, arrayed like an army, and Jon suspected that was no accident. His horse stamped in Winterfell’s courtyard, exhausted by the cold. His aunt had warned him of the snow and ice he’d encounter in this rebellious Northern kingdom.

Ice, but fire too, Jon thought, as Lady Sansa’s red hair shone like flame in the morning light. Her blue eyes burned into him. She had not said a word, since he called upon her and her people to submit to his aunt, the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms. Called upon them to kneel.

Lady Sansa lifted her chin. “Your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen, brings us this demand?”

“She does, Lady Sansa. Submit, and be spared her wrath. Dragonfire is a painful punishment for treason.” Jon winced inwardly. Daenerys was his queen and future wife, but her high-handed rhetoric did not roll easily off his tongue.

Lady Sansa inclined her head, the barest nod, acknowledging his threat. Her red hair rippled in the breeze like a banner.

“Very well. Here is her answer. You may tell your queen the North will not submit.” Her voice rang out, clear as a bell, and Jon saw lords and ladies alike stand up straighter.

“Tell her the North remembers, and winter is here. She may fly her dragons to meet us where we stand. Fire has ever been her weapon, but ice will be her downfall.”

She stared Jon down.

“We will not kneel.”

The lords behind her drew their swords and took up the cry of “Winterfell” and “for the North!”

Sansa’s eyes locked on to his. She would be a better queen than my aunt could ever hope to be, he thought. Her people love her, follow her freely. She does not need thee dragons at her back to inspire loyalty and devotion.

Jon fought the sudden, wild impulse to dismount and lay his sword at her feet. He was dangerously close to losing his heart to this Northern woman who was a queen in all but name.

He nodded, and could not keep a smile from his lips. Lady Sansa did not return the smile, but her eyes softened, and Jon was lost for certain, hopelessly in love with his enemy, who dared to defy dragons and tyranny both.


	27. Halloween treats (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a surprise costume planned for Jon. Unfortunately she's having a little trouble getting the message across, thanks to Rickon.

Hanging out with her baby brother Rickon the night before Halloween was usually a blast. Sansa loved coming up with games for them to play, and she learned a lot about Legos. Like a _lot_. Also vampires.

But tonight, she wanted to tease Jon about the costume she planned on showing him in private on Halloween after the trick or treaters dried up. Once Rickon was snoring peacefully, she dialed Jon's number.

Jon had been jumpy about taking calls from the Stark house - Robb had only recently agreed to stop threatening Jon for dating Sansa. Sansa loved Robb but the protectiveness that was sweet when she'd been, oh, ten was irritating now that she was _twenty_ and had her own apartment _,_ as she repeatedly and loudly reminded her big brother.

Thankfully Jon picked up. "Hey baby," Sansa purred into the phone. "Guess how I'm gonna greet you at the door on Halloween?"

"A vampire! She's gonna be a vampire! She's got a cape and everything and she promised!" Rickon tackled her legs.

Sansa stumbled and dropped the phone. She disentangled herself while Jon laughed on the other end of the line. 

Sansa bent down. "Rickon, go to bed. Straight to bed, you already have a glass of water, no, those puppy eyes won't work on me, we'll play Legos tomorrow morning."

Sansa sighed. So much for sultry romance. "You there Jon? Wait, are you still laughing?"

Jon caught his breath. "Sorry, sorry."

Sansa crossed her arms. "Hmmph. Maybe I won't do anything special."

"Hey, vampires are cool. Just wear that. You don't need to do anything special on my account, Sansa."

Sansa smirked. "So I should ditch the Black Widow costume, huh?"

She swore she heard Jon gulp. "I take it all back, vampires, who needs them, they're overdone antway, I love special things, please please please keep the costume."

She twirled the cord around her finger. "You'll just have to wait and see."


	28. The deepest wish of my heart (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow has sketched drawings since he was a little boy. He continues the habit throughout his life, capturing different moments in time, at the Wall, with Ygritte, and with his family. His ability to draw disappears once he gives up the North, but comes back in fits and starts. His riskiest drawing is the one that exposes his heart’s desire - to marry his cousin Sansa. He tries to protect it, but one day Sansa confronts him with the sketch. The result is not what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An expanded headcanon that ran away with me. I hope you enjoy it!

Jon draws. He started when he was young, a useful pastime for a bastard boy who needed to stay out of the way.

He hides his pictures from others - drawing and sketching are girls’ pursuits, after all, and he’s already enough of an outsider. He slips up in the godswood, lingering too long to sketch the leaves. Robb finds him, and doubles over laughing at his “tree art.”

It’s easier at the Wall. The men leave each other alone, and he spends countless nights in his room, shivering from cold. He does his best to keep his hand steady as he brings Ghost, the mess hall, Sam and Pyp and Grenn to life. He bites his lip, sketching Ghost’s fur with light strokes as the direwolf reclines by the fire. He tries fire itself next - his fingers are blackened with charcoal before he captures the movement of the flames on paper.

He doesn’t draw Ygritte until after his time with the wildlings is over. He can’t find paper, or the space to sketch privately.

After she dies, Ygritte is all he draws for a year. How her hair fell in her eyes at night, how she squinted when she slung her arrows over her shoulder for a hunt. He conjures up how beautiful she’d looked as she slept next to him in the tent. He’d never been able to tell her, how happy she’d made him, how lovely she was, how he’d stay awake just to watch her sleeping peacefully.

Now he never would.

He doesn’t touch parchment after he comes back from the dead. He’s too afraid he’s changed, forfeited that respite.

Until Sansa throws herself into his arms, and color comes rushing back into the world again.

He draws Brienne in her gleaming armor, Tormund laughing with his head thrown back, the Wall itself. He frowns as he scratches, but the rush of satisfaction he feels when he renders the Wall’s shadows and crevices is exhilarating.

And he draws Sansa. Over and over and over again, like an obsession, stronger even than his drive to draw Ygritte.

Before the battle for Winterfell, when other men are drinking or sharing their tents, he takes out his favorite picture of Sansa. She’s wrapped in his cloak and sipping soup by the fire in Castle Black. She’s warm, and safe.  _This is why I fight_ , he thinks.  _This is why we have to win_.

***

They prevail, but almost as quickly Jon as’s elected King in the North he must ride out of Winterfell again, in search of weapons and beasts. He completes one painting during his imprisonment on Dragonstone. He scrapes chalk on the rough cave walls, trying to build a myth that would convince Daenerys to join his cause.

He fails.

After he gives up the North, he can’t draw at all. Not the dragons he’s seen, not the Night King, no matter how extraordinary they are.

And he can’t sketch Daenerys.  She’d love it, to see herself on paper, another form of worship. But he’s given her too many false promises already. And as beautiful as she is, she makes him feel smaller, diminished, trapped.

When he and Daenerys return to Winterfell, Sansa’s there to greet them. His heart constricts at the cold, formal bow she gives him, but he knows it’s what he deserves.

His new parentage knocks the wind from his lungs, sets his world spinning. He tries and tries and tries to draw his new parents, even procures paints for the first time. Rhaegar’s silver hair, Lyanna’s crown of blue roses. He’s desperate to make sense of it somehow, but in the end there's only darkness, emptiness. He crumples up every tear-stained page.

So he picks up charcoal again, because black was always his color. He begins with what he drew as a boy - Winterfell itself. Soon he’s absorbed in the act, pouring Ghost and Bran and Arya onto the parchment. 

It’s still painful. It sinks in that his siblings are actually his cousins, that he’s distant, set apart from them now. Arya gets through to him first. She tells him to bloody get over it. She’ll whack him in the training yard if it will help. And it does.

Bran was lost to him as soon as he returned. He’s the Three-Eyed Raven now, and has no words of comfort for him. Jon sketches him in his wheelchair, eyes rolled back, and a shudder goes through him every time he looks as the portrait.

And Sansa - Jon can’t seem to stop sketching her. He even picks up the paints he threw away in anger in order to evoke her auburn hair, how it shines when she sews next to the fire. He can’t get the knack of it, until he understands the relationship between the light and the soft sheen of her hair. Then he blends reds and oranges and yellows to capture the warm glow.  When he’s satisfied, he feels like he’s home again, because Sansa and Winterfell are tied together in his heart. He creates portrait after portrait of her, In the great hall, in her study, when she’s stroking Ghost, a small smile on her lips. He almost shows her that drawing, thinks it could bring her some comfort after Lady’s death. But she might ask to see others, and he can’t risk it.

Because he’s in love with her. He kept his drawings hidden before, but now he keeps them under lock and key, because they reveal the deepest wishes of his heart. The most dangerous picture is the one he works hardest on, because he has to close his eyes and imagine it first. He and Sansa are both in the godswood. He’s sweeping his cloak around her shoulders, wedding her, because she’s finally, finally allowing him to protect her, to try to keep her safe and loved.

He trusts Sansa too much, however, and that trust is his undoing. She asks after a letter in his desk one day and he offers her the key absently, absorbed in battle plans.

He glances her way when there’s a long pause. She’s gripping the sketch. Of the two of them, under the weirwood tree. There’s no mistaking it as a marriage ceremony. Her hands are shaking. She holds it out to him, silently.

He gives up. He tells her the truth, because how could the truth be any more damaging than what she’s seen with her own eyes?

He can’t read her expression. She walks slowly over to the fire and tosses the drawing in the flames. They both watch the edges blacken and curl. Jon’s heart sinks.

Them she beckons him over. They stand side by side, not touching. She whispers that Daenerys can’t find out, ever, it’s too dangerous. But maybe, after this war is over, after they’ve survived Daenerys’s wrath about Jon’s, they could make the picture into a song, bring it into the world alive. She offers her hand, and Jon takes it. He laces his fingers with hers, and his heart is full to bursting. They stay there, staring at the fire, until the embers burn out.

***

After the Great War is over, Jon and Sansa rebuild Winterfell. Jon draws his sons and daughters in his mother’s arms. Their firstborn is a dark-haired, blue-eyed book named Robb, solemn and earnest. He’s followed by twin girls, Arya and Lyanna, boisterous redheads with grey eyes. They torment Ghost, who’s older now. He patiently tolerates being ridden like a great horse around Winterfell’s grounds.

Jon discovers his son in his study one spring morning. Robb’s tongue sticks out between his teeth as he scratches on a piece of parchment. Robb hides the paper behind his back but Jon tickles him, elicits a giggle, and Robb shyly shows him a rumpled drawing of Ghost.

Robb hangs his head. He blurts out that he’s sorry, he should spend more time in the training yard. Jon just goes to his desk, takes out one of his pictures of his direwolf, and sits on the floor with Robb.  He talks to him quietly about both drawings, showing him  _your father does this too, he understands, he loves you_.

That’s how Sansa finds them. Jon’s head is bent with Robb’s and they’re lost to the world, wrapped up in each other. They don’t notice when she gently closes the door behind her, leaving her two favorite boys together to their pastime.


	29. We're all just songs in the end, if we're lucky

“Sing me another song, Jon.”

Sansa curled up next to Jon’s side. She tucked her head under his chin as the thunder boomed. Jon’s chambers were smaller than hers, but as soon as he saw the first flash of lightning he knew Sansa would be off and running, on her way to him. Sansa was proud of being a little lady at four, but Winterfell’s storms terrified her. 

“What do you want to hear?” Jon stifled a yawn. Jon would stay up with her, as long as she needed. Robb would, too, of course, but Sansa had confided that Robb teased sometimes, about being afraid of the rain. 

“Florian and Jonquil.” 

Jon started to sing, in a high, sweet voice. He never sang for anyone else, never even considered it. But a month ago, when Sansa couldn’t stop shaking as the hail pelted the windows, he’d tried it, and she’d soon fallen asleep in his arms. The same was true tonight - Sans's breathing evened out, and soon she was dreaming peacefully.

Her mother found Sansa in Jon’s bed the next morning. 

“Sansa!” Lady Catelyn’s face was bright red. Sansa shrunk into a ball. Jon fumed silently. He knew Sansa hated disappointing her mother, and there was no call to shout at a small girl.

”Out, right now! Leave!”

Sansa stumbled down the hall. Lady Catelyn fixed Jon with a stare. “If I ever find Sansa in your rooms again, Ned will know if it, and punish you.”

“Yes, Lady Catelyn.” Jon’s pride stung, but he worried about Sansa too, especially when he saw her clinging to her mother’s skirts later that day.

“Why mama? I was scared. Jon sings to me, he’s nicer than Robb, he-”

Lady Catelyn carded her hand through Sansa’s hair, but her voice was firm. “Sleep with Robb, if you’re frightened, Sansa. He’ll help you. Not Jon.”

 _Because I’m a bastard_ , Jon thought darkly. He was seven, no longer a baby. He knew where the lines were drawn. 

***

Robb instinctively stepped in to be Sansa’s champion when the Stark children played Knights and Dragons. Sansa was a lady of twelve now, a highborn daughter of Winterfell.  Jon hovered at the edges, bitter but resigned.

He rarely saw Sansa these days. She was swept up in sewing and music lessons. She’d be wooed, in a few years, princes coming from distant kingdoms to win her hand. 

Why would she need him to sing to her, when her life was a song already?

He was nursing a good sulk as he stalked off to the godswood one afternoon. Only the sound of sniffling shook him out of his bad humor. Sansa's green cloak covered half her face as she knelt by the tree. Her hair was mussed, and tears streaked her cheeks. Jon ran to her. Sansa turned away. 

“I’m sorry Jon, I’ll leave you to your prayers, I didn’t mean-”

“These woods are more yours than mine, Sansa.” He risked putting a hand gently on her shoulder “Are - are you all right?”

Sansa closed her eyes. Jon knelt carefully next to her. 

Sansa seemed to be struggling to talk, until the words burst out of her. “No, no I’m not, a boy, in the stables, he attacked he, pawed at my dress, and I couldn't run-”

Jon was on his feet. “I’ll kill him, Sansa, stay here-”

To his surprise, she caught his hand. “Robb’s already after him.”

 _Of course he is_ , Jon thought,  _he’s your champion, not me_.

Sansa turned her face up to him. “But...would you stay, Jon? For a little while?”

Jon’s heart constricted. Sansa used to ask that of him, when she was a baby, if she could stay for a little while. He gave her the same answer now he gave her then. 

“As long as you like Sansa, always.” He sat down next to her, in the soft carpet of leaves, and put his arm around her shoulder. Sansa leaned inside his side, crying again, until she fell into his arms. This was dangerous, dangerous, but he he drew her close to his chest all the same. She settled into his embrace. He stroked her back and gave in to the old, familiar joy of comforting her. Sansa’s sobbing subsided as they sat beneath the heart tree. Jon held his breath when Sansa tucked her head under Jon’s chin. 

“Jon would you - could you-” This couldn’t be easy for her, letting him soothe her, when her mother had insisted on keeping them apart.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. He’d seen Robb do the same. Surely there was nothing wrong with the gesture.

“What song would you like, Sansa?” He felt he curve of her lips against his shirt. He sent a prayer of thanks to the old gods, wrong as it was, when she let him sing Florian and Jonquil to her again. 

***

Jon held the gauze to his arm, hissing. Maester Luwin had tended to the wound, and he’d return to stitch him up once he was finished with Robb. Ser Rodrick had permitted Jon and Robb to use tourney swords for Jon’s sixteenth name day. Robb and Jon had clashed a little too enthusiastically, and they were both laid up in bed this afternoon. 

Jon knew it might be an hour till he saw the man again. Maester Luwin was thorough, and did not neglect his duties. But Robb liked to talk when he “bested” someone in the training yard. The maester would have no choice but to listen. Jon stared at the ceiling as blood seeped through the dressing. 

“Jon? Jon, it’s Sansa, may I come in?”

Jon blinked. He must have dozed off. “Yes, of course, come in.”

Sansa bustled into the room with gauze and a needle. “Maester Luwin sent me, he’ll be a while longer with Robb, he...”

Jon snorted. “He needs to hear the heroic story of how two boys managed to cut each other with tourney swords.”

Sansa tsked, but a smile played at the corner of her lips. “Jon, be kind. But yes, Robb’s been spinning a tale and...I was worried about you. Maester Luwin gave me leave to come see you, I’m good at sewing, I might be able to stitch you up, Jon, only if you didn’t mind-” Sansa was chattering, nervous.

Jon took her hand, touched by her concern. “That’s very thoughtful of you Sansa, but you needn’t worry. I’m-” He broke off and hissed again as Sansa removed the bandage. 

Her eyes darkened. “He shouldn’t have left you like this, Jon. The cut’s deep, it needs tending.” All her hesitation was gone as she pushed him back onto the pillow. Jon was pleasantly light-headed and barely felt the sting of the needle as Sansa sewed. She wrapped his arm up again, more tightly.

Jon was warm under the blankets, drowsy. Sansa touched his forehead. She frowned. “You’re running a fever, Jon, I’ll have the maester come right away. You need him.” Jon marveled at how blue her eyes were, how beautiful she was. He stopped himself before he reached out to touch her hair.  

Sansa leaned in to kiss his cheek, just like he’d seen her do for Robb after she tended to his wounds. “Please, Jon, get better for me.”

He turned to tell her he’d be fine, to thank her, and Sansa kissed his lips instead. They leapt apart. Jon half-expected Sansa to run. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Sansa brushed his hair from his brow and leaned in again. 

Jon put a hand on her chest, even though all he wanted to do was chase her lips win his own.  "Sansa, wait..."

Then all he could say was her name, again and again, once she started to kiss him in earnest. His heart hammered in his chest. He sat up, cupping the back of her head and kissed her more deeply, until they were both breathless.

A knock on the door startled them apart. 

“That’s Maester Luwin. I’ll...I’ll go, now.” Sansa murmured. She gathered her supplies and left, but not before squeezing Jon’s hand firmly, almost desperately. For the first time Jon wondered if Sansa might yearn for him as he longed for her.

***

Prince Joffrey came to visit that fall. Jon hated him on sight, hated the cruel lines of his face and his worm lips, but hated him more than anything for how he mocked Sansa behind her back. Jon was shocked to learn his father had agreed to a marriage between Sansa and the prince. Robert Baratheon was king, though, and a king’s command could not be turned aside.

Perhaps it was for the best. Jon couldn’t meet Sansa’s eye anymore, not after the kiss they’d shared. It was his duty to stop this madness before it started. He kept far away from Sansa, and readied himself for the long march to the Wall.

Jon was packing up his warmest clothes when he heard a light knock at the door. He knew instantly who it was, even though the hour was late. He froze.

“Jon, it’s Sansa, may I...may I say goodbye?” Her voice broke on the last word. Jon rushed to the door.

Sansa was in her nightrail and dressing gown. Her auburn hair tumbled down her shoulders. Jon ushered her inside, careful not to touch her. She picked up one of his gloves, twisted it in her hands. “It’s true, then. You’re off to the Wall.”

“And you’re off to King’s Landing,” Jon said sharply. He winced inwardly. He hadn’t meant to chastise her, but his anger boiled over.

Sansa tossed the glove down. “You think I want to go? With him? With that prince? With a man who can’t bear to be near me, who can’t-“ She burst into tears. All the fight went out of Jon. He took her in his arms, and let Sansa lead him to his bed.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry, I wish you didn’t have to leave, I wish-“

“I wish I could stay with you,” she whispered. She kissed him as if they’d never stopped, that day when she’d dressed his wounds. They clung to each other. She was warm, and pliant, and he was already lost.

Jon kissed her tears away, powerless against the wave of desire that welled up inside him at the sweet press of her lips, the small noises she made as she climbed into his lap. He kissed her mouth and her cheek and her collarbone, murmuring promises he could not keep into her ear. He couldn’t stop touching her, overwhelmed by the blinding storm, the ferocious force that seemed determined to pull them together. Sansa clutched at his shirt, tugging him closer.

“Jon, please, I-“

Ned Stark burst into the room. There was no mistaking the two of them, how Sansa was cradled on Jon’s lap, how they were both flushed. Sansa shrieked, and ran. Jon closed his eyes. He had to fix this, for Sansa’s sake.

“It’s my fault, father, all of it, don’t blame her.”  _Blame me, and my bastard blood_.

Ned Stark had never laid on a hand on Jon, but Jon fully expected a blow. He deserved one.

Instead, his father ran a weary hand over his face. “You leave for the Wall tomorrow, Jon, and you will not see Sansa again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father.”

 Jon thought of Sansa often, over the years, until the memory of her began to fade, worn at the edges, like the memories of the rest of his family.

***

“Open the gates!”

Jon trembled as he and Edd stood on the balcony at Castle Black. It could still be Uncle Benjen, come back for him. He’d never given up hope, entirely, that he might see his uncle again.

Then Sansa dismounted, and Jon couldn’t breathe.

_It can’t be her. It’s not possible. She died with the Lannisters._

Sansa’s gaze met his. Jon walked towards her in a daze. The snow fell thick between them.  _Is this a trick? The red woman’s magic? I’m seeing things that aren't there, maybe I’m still dead, maybe I never came back-_

Then Sansa threw herself into his arms, and the weight of her, her warmth, almost brought him to his knees. She nuzzled his cheek and he let himself believe it was truly her, back with him now, after so many years. She was alive, and strong and free. He brought her in from the cold, and bundled Sansa up by the fire. He went to get something hot, whatever soup or stew their meager kitchen had.

Tormund stopped him in the hall. “Your woman?” He jerked his head towards Jon’s chambers.

“My sister,” he gritted out. For once, Tormund leaned back, raised his eyebrows but let him be. 

Jon sighed.  _She is, she’s your sister, nothing’s changed, except you don’t have a child’s excuses anymore_.

Sansa did not approach him, or try to kiss him, while they fought for their home. She’d outgrown the whirlwind of folly that swept them up when they were younger. Jon’s heart ached, but he resolved to do the same.

***

“So you’re Aegon Targaryen, you see," Sam said. “It’s - it’s right here, in the book, and Daenerys...well Daenerys is your aunt.”

_And Sansa’s my cousin._

“What should we do, Jon?” Sam was concerned, as he should be. This was a matter of life and death. Jon posed a threat to a queen he’d prodded himself to seduce. Now Jon was a danger to her, and the three full grown dragons that roamed the skies. 

“We’ll think of something, Sam.” Sansa was brisk, all business, every bit the Lady of Winterfell. “Can you please leave us for a moment? We can speak again in the morning.”

Sam bowed and left.

For a brief moment when they were alone neither of them moved, and then Sansa threw herself into his arms again. Jon caught her and he kissed her, kissed her, kissed her, tasting her mouth, drunk on her closeness and her scent and how it felt to bury his nose in her hair. 

“Jon, Jon, I love you, I have, since we were children, I-”

Jon pulled back and kissed her forehead. “I love you too Sansa, you must know that. I always have, always.”

Sansa’s smile was brilliant, and warm, and as beautiful as the sun. Jon resolved to wed her, when the war was over, no matter the cost.  


	30. To the victor go the spoils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a tumblr prompt of the same title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - this one's super angsty and sad! Very sad! Jon has basically fucked everything up and sees the damage he's done when he comes back to Winterfell post S7. There's mention of him in bed with Daenerys as well.

Jon wiped away his tears that threatened to freeze in his beard. It wouldn’t do to cry in front of his men. He only had a few more minutes of solitude, here on Winterfell’s ramparts, before the first war council would begin. He’d hoped the vicious wind and driving snow would numb the ache in his chest. But he felt as miserable and defeated as he had when he’d snuck away from his bed.

Daenerys had nudged him playfully under the covers in the Lord’s chambers last night. “You do brood so, Jon. You’ve won, don’t you see? The Northern lords will come around. You’ve brought them dragons, and dragonglass.  What they need to fight the Night King.“ She’d patted his arm, and he’d mustered a smile.

Their return had been a success, in broad strokes. Sansa had given up the Lord’s Chambers graciously, and he remained King in the North. The lords had knelt before Daenerys and Jon upon their arrival at Winterfell last week.

But Daenerys simply chose to ignore painful truths that did not suit her.

She hadn’t noticed Sansa’s red-rimmed eyes when Sansa spoke in a clear, calm voice,  ordering the lords to keep their faith in Jon.

She’d turned away to chat with Missandei when Ghost snapped at Jon’s fingers, growling all the while. _Leave_ , he could almost hear Ghost snarling, _leave and never come back._

The Wildlings had cowered when Drogon roared at them. They didn’t kneel, they’d die first. Jon had shuddeed at the fear in the children’s eyes. _Necessary monsters_ , he’d told himself on the boat to White Harbor.

But dragons didn’t discriminate between the living and the dead. Drogon and Rhaegal took to the skies each night, hunting, and Jon knew in his gut, sure as breathing, that they’d start to feed on humans. Daenerys had all but ensured it, when she’d burned up the grain in the Reach.

A dragon roared in the distance. Drogon’s black shadow lazily circled the Wildling camp. He’d dive soon, snapping up prey. Jon clenched his fists. He was powerless to stop him.

Dragons, terrorizing his people.

Ghost’s dear companionship, lost.

Sansa, hiding her tear-stained face from him in the corridors.

_To the victor go the spoils._

Jon buried his face in his hands. It was spoiled, all of it, spoiled beyond repair, and Jon had no one to blame but himself.


	31. Find a way to lead them (Jon x Missandei)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon stumbles across a distraught Missandei in Winterfell's Great Hall. He learns she's running away, against Daenerys's wishes, to be with an injured Grey Worm. Before Missandei departs, she reveals crucial information about Daenerys's plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon x Missandei is my total crackship, and here it's just a mild crush Jon has on Missandei. Undercover lover Jon is in play here, so if that's a deal-breaker, stop reading now. I've had this idea for a while, ever since learning about the deleted scene in Season 6 where Daenerys makes Missandei swear never to betray her. I think it's possible Missandei is Daenerys's betrayal for love. Anyway, written while in a fair bit of pain, so probably not my best, but here we go!

Missandei was huddled on a bench in the Great Hall, alone. Sobs wracked her small frame.  Jon stopped in his tracks, unsure whether to approach her. He’d come to study the battle markers on the table again, in a desperate bid for inspiration to strike. Bran told him the Night King was a week’s march from Winterfell, at most.

But the sight of Missandei clutching her stomach drove Jon’s worries from his mind. Daenerys’s advisor was quiet and self-possessed, adept at keeping her own counsel. To find her in such a state was a shock.

Missandei spotted him, and leapt up from her seat. “My lord,” she whispered. She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her white gown.

Jon’s mouth worked.  _Just_   _Jon_ ,  _please_  was on the tip of his tongue, but he’d learned the absence of formal titles made Missandei uncomfortable. Titles were a part of her livelihood and craft.

“Are you all right, Missandei?” Jon spoke softly, but Missandei went rigid. She took several slow breaths, fighting for control.

“Yes my lord, I-” her face crumpled. “Please excuse me, I’m not well.” She looked down at the floor.

“Can I help? Can I send for someone?” Jon felt helpless himself. Women in distress disturbed him. He wished he could magically fix things, or punch someone. Preferably both.

“No, thank you, you are too kind, I need only to return to my chambers.”  Jon offered his hand, and Missandei took it. She smiled at him, and Jon forgot where he was. Daenerys was his queen and his lover, by necessity. Keeping up the pretense was a reflex by now. But Missandei’s eyes were dark and shining, without a hint of cruelty or malice. She would never revel in the burning of enemies, or declare kingdoms hers by birthright alone.

Nor was she his to love. He’d never abuse his own position that way, and he knew Missandei had a great love of her own. Grey Worm, the head of the Unsullied army.

Jon shook himself. It wouldn’t do to moon at her like a green boy. “Can I take you to Grey Worm?” he offered.

Missandei shuddered. “He’s not here. He’s gravely ill. He sent a raven the other day. He hasn’t returned from scouting near the Last Hearth. He tried…” She dashed away tears. “He tried to tell me not to worry. He tried to say goodbye.”

“You should go to him,” Jon said, low and urgent.  “I know it’s a long journey, but we’ll find a way.”

Missandei’s mouth twisted. “You were right,” she bit out.

Jon blinked. “Right about what?”

Missandei squeezed Jon’s hand. “About…about my Queen. You asked if I believed she’d let me leave her service, that day on Dragonstone. Give me a boat if I asked and set me free. I told you I knew she would, that she’d even wish me good fortune.”  Bitterness crept into her voice.  “I was wrong. She refuses to give me leave to go to him. She insists I stay by her side. Because I am her trusted advisor. And because, in the end, I am her slave, after all.“

Jon stopped himself from cursing. Missandei needed encouragement, not anger. “I’m sorry, Missandei. I – I’ll try to speak with her.” Jon chafed inwardly. He served Daenerys too - he’d sworn it - and he had no more ability to free Missandei than Missandei did. Missandei was sharp enough to know it.

Missandei glanced at him, horrified. “Please don’t. I…I’m stealing a horse and going anyway, my lord. I know it’s treason, but I love him and I have to be with him.” Missandei held her chin high.”Tell her if you must only…please give me tonight, to try to get away.”

“Missandei,” Jon said gently, “I won’t tell her at all. I never saw you tonight. You should have an escort. Is there someone you trust? I could ask Davos-“

Missandei gave him a small smile. “Davos is one of your best advisors. Please, do not waste him, though it’s unspeakably kind of you. You are a…fine leader, my lord.” She took a deep breath. "Please allow me to return your kindness. I fear the queen may not be able to resist returning to King’s Landing, now that she knows Cersei will not be true to her word and maintain the alliance. She’s told you otherwise, but…separately she plots to fly there, to take Drogon and burn Cersei out of the Red Keep.”

Jon was stunned. “But she’ll split our forces. We’ll risk losing to the Night King.”

“She doesn’t care. She wants only to sit on the Iron Throne, with you as her consort. She said the other night that being queen of the ashes was as good as being queen of the dead.”

Jon stiffened. In his heart of hearts, he was weary, rather than surprised. Daenerys had a deep and driving ambition. It was a powerful tool against the Night King, and an all-consuming disease when it came to the Iron Throne.

Missandei blushed. “Farewell my lord. I think you…you would have let me go?” 

“Yes, Missandei. I would have. There’s precious little love and joy during the Long Winter. But more importantly you wouldn’t be mine to keep or command. You’d be free to leave my service.”

Missandei curtseyed, and Jon released her hand. She was on the cusp of leaving, before she turned and kissed his cheek. “Lead them,” Missandei whispered fiercely. “Wrest control from her hands if you have to. Save them from the Night King and become the king they need. The king you already are.”

She gathered her skirts and ran, white silk billowing behind her. Jon stood stock-still, touching his cheek, willing himself to be strong enough to become the man Missandei already thought he was.


	32. a blanket of love (Jon x Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa knits Jon a special Christmas present. Catelyn Stark is worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of holiday fluff. Enjoy!

Sansa knits gifts each year, and everyone groans when they unwrap them except Jon. She’s a natural, however, and her scarves and hats are stylish and practical. Robb and Arya grudgingly wear an item or two after Catelyn gives them The Look, but secretly Sansa’s gifts are in the tops of their drawers, because they’re useful.

Jon though - Jon comes to the holiday celebration wearing every single piece of clothing Sansa has knitted for him over the years. The family snickers when he walks in the door because he’s head-to-toe Sansa - hat, scarf, sweater, mittens, socks, even the dark brown satchel she knitted for him that he uses to play Santa for Rickon.

Sansa’s gift for Jon is in a prominent spot under the tree this Christmas - there’s really nowhere to put it except right up front, the box is so large. Robb hushes Rickon as Jon tears into the silver paper, but Rickon insists on asking if it’s a pair of knit pants, because what else is left?

Jon’s mouth falls open as he lifts up the afghan. Even Arya gasps - it’s beautiful, thick ivory yarn with a cable motif.

Sansa claps her hands and sits next to Jon, helping him pull the never-ending blanket out of the box. When they’re finished she shakes it out over both of their laps. Jon’s ears are red but he’s smiling.

“What’s gong on?” Rickon asks. Catelyn Stark already looks pale.

Sansa takes Jon’s hand. “Jon and I are moving in together. He needs a blanket we can share when we watch movies and…watch TV,” she finishes, blushing under Robb’s glare.

“Wait, you’re dating?” Arya looks like she swallowed a nasty piece of fish.

“They’ve been dating for a year now,” Bran says quietly.

“A year and a half,” Catelyn murmurs, “but this is too fast, Sansa. You hardly know each other.”

Sansa straightens in her seat. “We’ve known each other forever, mother. Besides, I asked you for the knitting pattern six months ago.”

Ned puts an arm around Catelyn’s shoulder. “Didn’t you make me a blanket like that, when we moved into our first apartment?”

Catelyn’s lips are pressed into a thin line. “I did. But this isn’t the same.”

Jon takes a shaky breath. “I know it seems like a lot, Ms. Stark, but I promise I’ll be good to her.”

“Damn right you will,” Robb growls in his Big Brother voice.

Sansa stops herself from rolling her eyes. “Robb, Jon’s your best friend, and I really care about him. Trust us, okay?”

Robb runs a hand through his hair. “Fine. But I know where you live, Jon Snow.”

Jon nods. “I know you do.”

Sansa thrusts Robb’s present into his arms. “Please have the ‘I’ll intimidate your boyfriend’ talk after Christmas, Robb. Let’s not stop the evening.”

Robb grumbles, but agrees, and soon the family’s swept up in opening brightly wrapped boxes and bags. Arya plugs her new ear buds into her phone, Rickon narrowly misses Bran as he drives his toy truck around the carpet, and Ned and Catelyn are sitting in the loveseat, passing books back and forth. Robb wanders off to call Jeyne, after some more pointed glaring in Jon’s direction.

From time to time, though, Ned catches Sansa’s eye, and he’s smiling a little at Jon. Sansa smiles back and leans her head on Jon’s shoulder. Her father’s always liked Jon, and Sansa knows she can count on Ned to run interference with her mother and Robb. Sansa twined her fingers with Jon and kisses him on the cheek.

“So they haven’t killed me yet,” Jon whispers.

“They won’t,” Sansa answers. “They like you too much. So do I.”

Jon’s eyes are sparkling. “Movies and TV, huh?”

“Well I can’t exactly tell them all of our plans for it, can I?”

Jon sneaks a peek at Catelyn. “Uh, no, definitely not.” He brushes a kiss over her hair. “Thanks for this, love. It’s the best gift I could wish for.”

“It’s the best gift for me too, Jon.” Sansa feels warm and happy, next to the Christmas tree. She has her family around her, and Jon to go home to.


	33. Watch over her for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon asks Ghost to protect Sansa in his absence. When he returns, the direwolf decides to shield Sansa from Jon. Jon cannot bring himself to blame his lifelong companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Sansa needs someone - whether a human or a creature - to be entirely dedicated to keeping her safe.

_Take care of her. Watch over her. For me_.

Jon’s chest loosens at Ghost’s wordless assent. He mounts his horse and gazes over his shoulder at Sansa, his sister and his secret shame, before riding for Dragonstone.

Ghost upholds his charge faithfully. He walks by Sansa’s side during the day, padding next to her in the halls. He curls up at her feet when she sews, and guards her door at night. He snaps and growls silently at Littlefinger, until Sansa and Arya go in for the kill.

Then one day, across the sea, Jon gives up the North and his allegiance to a foreign queen. In the courtyard at Winterfell, a heavy snow falls. Ghost throws his great head back and howls for the first time. The high, eerie sound echoes off the castle walls. In the godswood, the red leaves of the weirwood tree tremble and quake. Only Sansa, after much cajoling, can silence the beast. When she finally strokes Ghost's muzzle, he shudders and noses her gloved palm.

***

Jon’s scroll declares that he will return with Daenerys Targaryen, the North’s new queen. Sansa dresses herself and Arya and Bran in the finest clothes her needle can craft. She assembles the lords and ladies at the gate to greet the couple. Ghost insists on staying close. She tries to dissuade the direwolf, with treats and sweet words, but he refuses to budge, so Sansa yields. Ghost bares his teeth when he scents the interloper, to prove that the country she’s come to conquer still has fangs.

Jon rides into in the courtyard with his silver-haired queen. He dismounts and nearly sags with relief when he sees Sansa, and Arya, and Bran, whole and alive.

Jon lights up when he spots Ghost at Sansa’s side. He holds out his hand in greeting. Ghost flattens his ears, curling his lips into a silent snarl. Daenerys recoils, but Jon doesn’t notice. The wolf arches his spine as if to jump straight for Jon’s throat.

Jon’s heart cracks open. Ghost’s soul is entwined with Jon’s. Jon had buried his face in Ghost’s fur, at Winterfell and the Wall, drawing on Ghost’s strength to fight off the sting of the words  _bastard_  and  _turncloak_. His companion's solid warmth had kept Jon from freezing during icy nights beyond the Wall. Ghost stood watch, unmovable, after Jon’s brothers stabbed him and left him for dead. Ever since he was a pup, Ghost has never wavered.

Now, pinned by Ghost’s red glare, Jon lets the wolf's fury wash over him. He understands. He’s betrayed his family. He’s fought to keep them safe as well, but he’s betrayed them all the same. Ghost withdraws from Jon's mind, splitting them apart, the sensation like roots tearing out of the earth.

Sansa steps in front of the direwolf, shielding Jon. “Ghost, no! Jon, I’m sorry, I don’t-”

Tears spring to Jon’s eyes. “It’s all right, Sansa. He’s protecting you.”

 _For me. From me_.

_From the storm I’ve brought into our home._


	35. Jonsa Fluffy Valentine's Day headcanons

Jon is a total over-the-top romantic when it comes to Valentine’s Day. Marg teases Sansa about the oceans of roses on her desk at work. Sansa has to sit Jon down and explain that buying out the chocolate shop is sweet but unnecessary and no, they don’t need to fly to Barbados.

Sansa likes to take Jon out to dinner on Valentine’s Day - because they both enjoy it, and because she can pick a fancy restaurant and treat herself to Jon in a suit jacket.

Sansa dresses up on Valentine’s Day night. Every year when Sansa comes out in another gorgeous lingerie outfit, she bites her lip and asks if Jon likes it. So Jon spends more time than usual slowly taking her clothes off, whispering how beautiful she is and how lucky he is to be dating her. Plus, she always picks red, and that happens to be Jon’s favorite color. He goes a little crazy for it.

Sansa crosses her fingers for cold weather on February 15. She needs to be able to rock a scarf or (god forbid) a turtleneck, because her Valentine’s Day night outfits _really_ work on Jon.

Jon tries to leave Sansa messages with candy hearts on their kitchen counter, but their Huskies knock them all over the floor. Finally Sansa buys candy heart magnets, and they spell out messages for each other on the fridge that are so sappy, Arya implements a lifetime ban on visiting during Valentine’s week.

Jon’s favorite candy heart is True Love, and Sansa’s is Ever After.


End file.
